A Reflection Unbroken
by cloogle
Summary: I will never quite understand the motives of one Miss Emma Swan. I am a scorpion, so why does she trust that I won't spike her with my venom? Is she eternally locked in a state of selflessness, whereby she can only do good for others; even for me? What a burden that must be.
1. The Check

Disclaimer: Once Upon A Time and its characters are the property of ABC/Disney. No infringement intended.

Thanks go to faithinthepoor for beta reading and xactodreams for keeping me sane.

Post Neverland. Pre reset. I've not yet seen 3B, so don't spoil me! :)

* * *

_**A Reflection Unbroken**_

_Chapter One: The Check_

What on earth is she doing moseying around my gate like a metal merchant estimating a smelting price? "It's not a portal to another world," I mutter with a low growl, pulling back the drape to better see, "so stop poking my wrought ironwork and walk up the damned path." With every second that passes, I further lose my patience and my left eye strains not to twitch despite an overwhelming sense of creeping agitation. I continue to peer at the infuriating creature as she stands idly by while I grow increasingly restless.

A frown pins itself to her forehead as she runs an extended finger over the enamel paint, tracing the curvature of the curlicues; no doubt because they are faintly swan-shaped. Surrendering to the constant prickle of impatience, I rap sharply upon the window. Startled eyes dart up and find mine. Employing the use of a stern glare, I beckon her to me. With little urgency, a shrug forms at the corner of her mouth as she finally submits to her duty and saunters up to my door, which - on this occasion - I have left unlocked.

I move through into the kitchen and attempt to steady my respiration by taking long, deep breaths. I will not fight with her today. I will not. More important things are at hand. The front door clicks shut and I hear a feeble, short-lived attempt at brushing her shoes upon the mat. "Come through," I call, listening to the speed of her lazy pace as it grows closer. For goodness sake, my heart beats faster than she walks. Did I not say this was urgent? Did I not stress that fact in my message to her? I spot movement near the doorway. Well, here she _finally_ is: Miss Storybrooke. A round of applause, please, for our notorious savior: the woman sent to save our souls.

Swaggering into my kitchen and removing her brown leather bomber jacket, Emma steals a black grape from my fruit basket, and pops it into her mouth with indecorous confidence. "Hey," drops from her lips with an awkward flutter of her thick, dark eyelashes as she steps forward with a maladroit motion that sets her high ponytail swinging. First rubbing at the jeans pockets of her tightly clad hips, she proceeds to pull up the pale blue sleeves of her linen baseball sweater and leans against my flour-dusted countertop. "You summoned me and I'm here. What's up?" Her eyes meet mine and my jaw tenses. "By the way, your topiary need a trim," she goads smugly. _This_ is the person I choose to assist me? I must be insane.

"You're late," I snap. There's no point trying to conceal my aggression; I'm well aware of how transparent I am with her. Any kind of attempt at niceties would only arouse suspicion.

Emma's eyes narrow and the corners of her mouth turn down. Her arms cross defensively. "All Henry said when he came home was that you wanted to see me. I didn't know there was a time frame involved. Besides it's been what, like, ten minutes?"

Twenty five. "Fine. Fine." I grip the counter's edge, incidentally causing the shallow scratch-like cuts across my right palm to throb and sting more fiercely than before. Gritting my teeth, I swallow hard and squeeze shut my eyes. Before we can continue, there is something that needs addressing. "Please wash your hands." Surprisingly, she meanders over to the basin without argument. I was expecting a childish act of rebellion. In fact she is so compliant, anyone would have thought I held her heart in my hand. As the faucet runs, I stride away.

When I return, a pair of clean, dry hands are indelicately waved in my face. "So what is it? You want me to sign some paperwork or something?"

Her curiosity is not unexpected, but I'm not ready for such easy exposition. Not yet. "We'll come to that." I tip out the contents of the bowl onto the surface and lightly brush down the arms of my blouse. "This requires kneading." It's no doubt already ruined; I was halfway through when I received that poison pen letter, but I hate unfinished business and I need distraction. Dear God, I need a distraction. A fragment of normality if nothing else.

She looks at me like I've just grown large, thorny wings. "Huh?"

I huff impatiently. "This dough requires kneading," I spell out. In her eyes I see disappointment. I know she's calling me a time waster in her mind and is cursing my name under her breath. I hold up my recently injured hand. She is taken aback, but concern is evident in her expression. I like that she is shocked. Carefully, she takes me by the wrist and closely examines the harsh crimson lines that slice across my life line. I am resistant at first, but ultimately concede. Her thumb runs over the outline of my palm and her breath tickles my skin. A shiver runs up my arm and forces me to pull back.

"Shit, Regina, that looks painful." I raise an eyebrow and pout like it's nothing. She doesn't pry as to the cause. Is she not interested? "Okay. You _need_ me, so I'll _knead_ for you." Puns. _Great_. Is this a little camaraderie? I suspect it is since she is currently throwing me a winsome, saccharine smile. I do not believe I carry the instrument with which to play this ridiculous tune of companionship. In my experience, badinage only leads to bondage and then, in all likelihood, to the application of bandages. I jest. Or do I? "How do I do it?" she murmurs.

Did she _seriously_ ask that question? "Haven't mommy and daddy dearest taught you how to bake? Surely there have been many a cosy evening wiled away in the kitchen decorating cupcakes and cookies before they tuck you into your princess-pink canopy bed at night," I reply condescendingly. Sometimes I kick myself for the number of times asinine quips spill from my mouth, but other times they are just too hard to resist. And yet, no matter how withering a look I toss her way, she doesn't appear to be offended or jaded by my remarks. It is gloriously frustrating. It spurs me on, driving me towards those times when I hit a delicate nerve. "Honestly? You haven't a clue?"

Her shoulders rise and her nose wrinkles. "I've pummeled a few beer guts in my time."

"Delightful. You're hired." I take her through what is necessary, and she observes as I mime the required action, kneading the air.

"Okay, now we're ready for the luau, now how's about the baking?" Oh, such a trenchant wit; I will die laughing. My scornful look wipes the smirk from her pretty face. Begrudgingly, she begins. Her strength is an advantage, but she doesn't have the fire and anger that I would normally direct into my work. She picks up the motion quickly, taking to this far more easily than she ever did with magic. I find myself... what is that? Pride? Am I proud? Suddenly I must look away as regret ties my stomach in knots. "Why do you do this yourself anyway? What's wrong with store bread?" she asks inanely.

I tut audibly and cross my arms. Emma doesn't think sometimes. Why is that? It's not as if she's not imbued with intelligence; I've even heard her use a few three syllable words on rare occasions. How can she so easily look at me and fail to fathom why my life might not be so simple. Does she presume I am merely bombastic? That I think myself too good for the product of other people's toil? I'm not saying I don't prefer the finer things, but is that seriously what she's expecting me to reply with? "You seem to have forgotten that I am not a welcome figure in this community. You _surely_ remember the lynch mob clamouring at my door at one time. You did, after all, come wading through the masses to -"

"Save your ass," she interjects smugly.

I could argue, but what would be the point; she did - for all intents and purposes - save my ass. It is beyond regrettable that she will not be able to do the same today; the damage has already been done. "And our little trip to Neverland -" I continue "- has garnered myself little in the way of acceptance, in fact it has marred my reputation as a leader. I am, there can be no doubt, a thing of mockery. Those that do not laugh behind my back, cower in fear." But that's the issue, isn't it? I have too often lived up to people's expectations. I _am_ that person whom they should loathe. I _am_ a joke. How I long to obliterate their memories again. Alas, it is too late for anything to change now. I notice that Emma's dominant arm is slackening its pace. "Press harder. Be rough," I advise with a snap of my fingers.

A wry smile slips across her lips. Perhaps she expected the remark. I watch intently, internally critiquing the repetitive movement. The heel of Emma's palm repeatedly pushes away from her, stretching and folding the dough. Back and forth. Flour speckling the air. Before long my vision is swimming as I concentrate solely on her arms and the sight of her shoulder muscles shifting sinuously beneath semi-sheer fabric. It is as hypnotic as the sway of a pendulum or swing of a pocket watch. Time. Time is still running out. I exhale gently so as not to alarm her, but I find my knees are weakening and must find a seat. I sit upon a stool and cross my legs to steady the faintly perceptible tremble.

She wipes the back of her wrist across her forehead and straightens her spine. Her cheeks are glowing from exertion. "So you do this because you don't want to go out?"

"I like to keep to myself as much as possible." Should I expound upon this vulnerability? If not now, when? There will be no other time to bare my soul. "The way they look at me is..." I suck at my tongue, trying to form the words. I can't explain the feelings that broil fiercely inside; the ones that etch dread into my bones. Even now, the memory of hardened, glassy-eyed glances scratches again and again like an engraver's chisel scoring an epitaph into the tomb-like fortress that is my rib cage. Our townspeople would cut me open in an instant if they dared, just to see what my insides looked like. "Do you have any idea what it's like to confront the tearful expressions of those you have damaged?"

The question takes Emma by surprise, but she does not dismiss it. For a second, she keeps quite still. "Yeah, actually -" she tenses the muscles in her jaw and purses her lips "- in you. Every time I look at you I can see the pain I caused by misjudging you as an unfit mother. I projected onto you every little bit of resentment I ever had for my adopters and foster carers. And I'm... pretty ashamed of it."

"Oh." I wasn't expecting that. I absorb the moment, taking from it every ounce of reward that can be derived. Misjudged. She said she misjudged me. I'll take it even if it is not true. I roll my eyes to stem the burgeoning tears, but she will perceive it as an act of flagrant contempt. In truth, I am intensely touched. Why the _hell_ is she being so nice? I can't handle nice right now. "Why don't you look at me the way everyone else does?" I ask sincerely, rubbing at the sides of my flushed neck and watching my lower leg shift ever so slightly with every thudding beat of my crestfallen heart.

Like a child, she pushes out her bottom lip and frowns deeply. My pulse races as I prepare for her answer because, for some reason, it matters. Oh, how I wish it didn't. "Look, Regina..." She trails off and I find my throat tightening in anticipation. "Their perspective of you is different to mine. You had a new beginning in Storybrooke, you took it and made it your own. You tried. It's been hard, but you're _still_ trying to be good." She stares at the sunlit window, listening to a pair of gulls squawking in the distance. "You raised a son that I couldn't, and you made him into an amazing kid with a beautiful soul."

"I didn't make him anything," I object sternly. "That's his personality."

She stops what she's doing and furtively glances my way. "You think that? Seriously? Do you understand what I was mixed up in back then? How mentally screwed up I was? You _seriously_ think that _none_ of that would have affected him? It took me a long time to get my life turned around, and I'm glad I didn't mess up his childhood."

Shall I tell her? Loathed though I am to do so. "You wouldn't have." And I believe it. "He would have saved you as he saved me."

She thinks about this, her eyes subtly misting over, and I think she accepts it. "You could have brought him up mean, why didn't you?"

I shake my head. "I don't understand."

"Y'know... made him malicious, turned him against his grandparents, taught him to be sly and wicked; murderous, even."

I am aghast at this implication. "I would _never_..." I _have_ never contemplated the notion. My brow knits in astonishment at her naïveté. "He is the source of my _happiness_. Why would I tarnish something so wonderful?"

Emma clucks her tongue. "And that is exactly why I don't look at you the way they do, Regina." I am lost for words. She continues before I can form a cogent response, this time there is a cutting edge to her voice. "We've been in situations where we've had to form an alliance, right? And, personally, I think you more than tolerate me, but let me ask you: why do _you_ talk to _me_?" she asks, that distinctive frown deepening. "Shouldn't you hate me? Aren't I supposed to be your sworn enemy?" she adds, poking at my insecurities with a sharp, pointy stick. "What changed?"

"_S'posed_," I mock under my breath. Something dark inside wants me to rasp my response and urges me toward giving her a brutally scathing reply. Yes, we did once fight, almost as a matter of course, of habit, and of self-protection, but in reality all she has _ever_ done is challenge and - to my never-ending confusion - protect and forgive me. Perhaps, like Henry, she should never have suffered at the hands of the sins of the mother. And yet my current predicament is making my blood boil with an insuppressible anger. I can feel the bitterness clawing at every kind word that passes through my mind. And, trust me, there are so many. "What a poor enemy you have made," I utter breathily against my own better judgement. "You should have ended my life the minute you picked up your first weapon in this town."

She begins to pound the dough with gusto. "I don't shoot wounded animals."

"Tell that to the dragon you slaughtered," I sneer. "Oh, wait. I mean my oldest friend." We fall into the bite and snap so easily.

She licks her lips and sighs with exasperation, as if she hoped I would finally be rehabilitated. "What is wrong with you today?"

Today? "Everything, Emma, _everything_ is wrong." I get up, march over and grab her wrists. "That's enough. Thank you. I need to put it to one side to proof."

"Prove what?"

"You really know nothing, do you?" At this rate, I'll be smashing a few more things to smithereens.

Her flour-covered hands bundle into fists, but she doesn't try to free herself from my tightening grasp which must be as painful for her as it is for me. "Tell me what's going on."

"Nothing," I lie, releasing her with a wide, false smile. "Go wash up."

After running her hands under the water and rubbing them on a towel, she begins inelegantly fumbling with her back pockets. "You obviously don't want me here, so let's get done what you wanted and I'll go. I'm guessing this wasn't the main event. What's next? French pastries?" she jokes mirthlessly. Staring at my palm as if the sealing wounds might foretell the future, I try to keep a level head. I draw my lips into my mouth and concentrate on the lingering sting to ground myself. "Is it work?" she asks. I indicate a negative. "Henry, then."

"Well I _hardly_ I invited you here to share a bottle of Chablis, watch Working Girl and reminisce about bad hair days, did I?" I spit back.

"At 11am? Guessing not." She eyes me cautiously, the bright morning light illuminating her smooth cheeks. "Besides, I'd have you down as more of a poker and cigars girl."

I scoff internally. Perhaps I am both. Perhaps I am neither. Truth be told, I would love a conventional day with not a care in the world, but the sands of time are cascading faster, each grain representing a task that will go undone. Resignation crushes optimism in my chest. I can't keep pretending to her that this is a regular day. I have put this off for long enough. I don't have time for this. That bread will go unbaked. This conversation will go unfinished. I've seen my last ever Storybrooke sunrise. Emma and Henry will never see me again.

I stand and hold my hand out to guide her from the room. "Well then, let's get to it."

* * *

We stand in the darkest of my rooms - the one with wood panelling and leather-bound books - which Henry likes to call 'the den'. I feel slightly more comfortable here, away from stark, sterile whites and polished surfaces. I place my glass upon the drinks tray having tipped back a measure of brandy. It has not eased my mind in the slightest, and the rushing adrenaline is forcing me to be alert, even at the cost of my sanity. If only I knew how much time remains; this uncertainty will be the end of me. At least, for now, I am not alone.

Emma squints at the slim piece of paper and draws in air as if smoking an invisible cigarette. "I don't get it. What's the catch?" Her eyes flick between my signature and her name, both are clearly written by me despite the affected penmanship. I guarantee it. There are no tricks here. Why must she quibble over this?

"Just take it," I insist, attempting to seem unperturbed while rubbing my fingertips uneasily over the fireplace mantelpiece. "Must you look a gift horse in the mouth?" With frustration, I push my hand through the length of my hair. "Ouch." Why, oh, why do I keep touching things? This is ridiculous. I continue to wince at the pain and, suddenly, I feel her hot glare.

She sits down on my mahogany-framed two seater, elbows resting on her knees. "What was it that you smashed?" she queries, looking around the room for the victim of my ire.

I sigh. My own reflection, of course. But, then, isn't that always at the receiving end of my wrath? No one likes to stare failure in the face. "Nothing of consequence," I respond coolly, smoothing my fingers over my hips and down the seams of my skirt.

Emma examines my expression, looking for the tell-tale signs of a lie. "Henry heard the crash after he left: it must've been pretty loud." She presses her palms together. "He also said he thought you'd been crying. Are you okay?" So _that's_ why she's being friendly; she feels sorry for me. How disappointing.

"He was mistaken," I remark sharply, turning my head to one side to, albeit ostensibly, peruse the intricate detail of a print on my wall. "Oh, Henry," falls from my lips through a shuddered breath against the back of my wrist. I did not want my son to recognize the weakness in me, but with him also I am transparent. Which reminds me: I should be diverting this conversation, perhaps to how I would like to have more access to him, to see him more oft... My throat closes as reality slips back in like a dark stain blackening every sweet memory. I am never-ceasingly amazed by how hard it is to accept this miserable fact. My subconscious must still hold a shred of pointless hope, but I know I can _never_ see him again.

I am unable to stymie the tears that now rise in my eyes even though they are distinctly unwanted. My beloved boy. How should I have said goodbye without giving away the fact that I will be leaving this world? I did not want to be thinking about whether he will miss me. I did not want to be contemplating the progression of his life after I am gone. I merely wanted to take in the sight of his sweet, innocent face as I tipped up his chin. I resist replaying the memory, but forcing back these turbulent emotions has caused an unbearable headache to build. I take a gulp of air and, at once, the pressure reduces but a soft sob is released and my eyes close. I am about to make my excuses and abandon the situation when I feel arms wrap around me.

Emma. I had not seen her coming. My vision further blurs as I stare blindly over her shoulder. With a single step, I am coerced backwards, the backs of my thighs nudging at the window's sill. At first I am afraid she has pinned my arms to my sides in order to render me powerless, but my movement is not restricted in quite that way. Yes, she and I have stood this close before, but during a clash or rescue only and never chest to chest. It is odd. She smells much more fragrant than I had ever cared to notice, and her body is soft as it yields against my own. Yet I sense her increasing unease as she coddles me against my will like an unruly child. "Did you find this technique helpful in childhood abandonment therapy?" I hiss.

"Get over it," she murmurs into my hair, stealing my breath, not with pressure from her embrace, but from the warm air that she exhales against my neck. My eyelashes flutter and my resolve weakens.

I will never quite understand the motives of one Miss Emma Swan. I am a scorpion, so why does she trust that I won't spike her with my venom? Is she eternally locked in a state of selflessness, whereby she can only do good for others; even for me? What a burden that must be. Her current aim is presumably to somehow physically compress my deep inner sadness and drive it up through flesh and bone until it sits upon my skin like a perspiration, ready to be washed away. I refuse to dissolve into a weeping mess. However, I find my submission comes in other ways as I tentatively reach up and place my hands on her back, silently begging her to squeeze me as hard as she is able. A burgeoning warmth spreads through me as she heeds my plea.

My lips are close to her ear; she is probably listening to my every inhalation, much as I am with her. There can be no denial that words of truculence have always slipped freely from my mouth like shards of ice melting on a hot tongue, but this time only: "thank you" is vocalized. Abruptly, she moves out of my reach and the action shoves me further towards the edge of tears. I hold my throat and suddenly realize that my hand is no longer damaged. This was not of my doing. I did, after all, promise that I would not use magic unless in dire need. She has not cured me entirely, though. "I believe I have only a few hours."

"To do what?" she asks plainly.

"Prepare to die."


	2. A New Suit

_Chapter Two: A New Suit_

"You're..."

"Yes," I reply.

Rooted to the spot, she casts me a look that is utterly honest and yet somehow guarded: her neck is strained; her eyes glisten with moisture; her nostrils flare; and her lips thin as she presses them firmly together. What is going through her mind at this moment, I wonder? What thoughts has this revelation sparked? I am unsure whether she wants to console me or throw a punch.

"I'll get Whale," she suggests at last, her expression suddenly diverted and frantic.

Eugh. "Oh, yes, fetch the quack doctor at once, how I _long_ to be transformed into a reanimated corpse hell bent on killing people," I seethe sardonically. I wouldn't let that jumped up little man so much as take my temperature. She tries another suggestion. I cringe upon hearing the cockalorum's name. "I've already spoken with Gold," I begrudgingly admit. "I'm sure you can imagine his usual spew of redundant advice." a

She gives a quick nod and says: "true love," with a knowing - verging on sorrowful - look in her eye.

I shake my head. Thank goodness he had not mentioned true love or I would have slapped the rictus grin from his face. "Defeat the enemy within and perfect health will be restored, dearie," I say with a particular lilt. I do a very good Gold, even if I do say so myself. "And I'll tell you exactly how... _if_ you'd care to grant me full guardianship of Henry." Yes, there's always a favor, isn't there?

Emma's mouth is turned down again, the pallor of her skin sallowing. "And did you..."

"No, dear, I did not." Not even to save my own life. However, at the time, his words had made me think: if I die... when I die, he would stake a claim on my son, and although Henry is not currently living under my roof, lawfully I am his parent. Therefore, the newly-amended papers in my safe, to which Dr Hopper now - much to his dumbfounded bemusement - has the code, dictate that - upon my death - Henry's guardian is to be none other than Miss Emma Swan. No one else would suffice. His safety is all I am concerned for. And she makes him happy. Logic must win out over the heart. I look at the discarded check on the table and sigh. Picking it up, I grab her hand and place it on her palm. The paper crinkles as she tightens her grasp around it. "A proportion will be needed for my funeral. The rest is for you and Henry until the house and its contents are yours to do with what you will. He will need a new suit. For the... occasion."

Emma carelessly stuffs the check in her back pocket. She is wise not to object, but I do hope she remembers to bank it before she washes those jeans; after all, I can't write another posthumously. "Don't you want to fight whatever it is?" she asks, her jaw flexing as she clenches her teeth.

If only I could. "There is no one to battle against. No potion I can brew. No spell I can cast." I throw back at her. "No way to find out who has murdered me. I do not even know the name of the magic that travels virulently through my veins."

"Wait, Regina. _Murdered_ you?" Holding her stomach, she buckles forward a little and indignant rage colors her cheeks. It is as if I have stabbed her. "What happened? Did someone attack you? Didn't you see them?" she interrogates fiercely.

"If I had, would I really be here right now?" A chill descends my spine and I struggle not to shiver. "I received a package and, on opening the envelope, a thick grey fog hit me. There could be no avoiding it." Murder by mail. What a pathetic coward my killer is. "The letter explained it would take a number of hours to do its work." I speak of this as if it is nothing, but when first I read those hastily-written words of hate, terror struck deeply. I knew it was not simply a threat, but that I was already dead. I could _feel_ it lurking inside me like an unscratchable itch.

She looks hopeful. "Do you have the letter. We could trace -"

Ever the sheriff. "_Poof_. It folded itself up and dissolved into ash in my hand. And yes, I know, there aren't many people here who can create magic or even obtain it, but anyone can buy it and plenty have cause to use it." My comeuppance had been due for a while, and here it is: my era of impunity is over.

"Then Gold might've sold it to them. He's the only -"

"I asked him, but he decided to have a little absence of mind and forget any recent customers."

Her fingers splay rigidly. "How can you be so calm?"

Naturally, this enrages me. "Because I could hurl all manner of objects at every single mirror in this house and all it would do is bring everything crashing about our ears," I reply, incensed. "What good would it do? None. Revenge takes time, something that I have very little of. So can you please address my wishes like an adult and listen to my last words. I do not know how many I have _left_."

She taps her fist against her lips, eyes darting as she makes unspoken plans. "Okay. Okay," she agrees softly. Perhaps revenge will come, but I will not be the one to exact it: she will. This pleases me. I just wish I could watch.

"Bury me in black," I dictate, unsure whether I would best be interred deep in the earth or kept within the walls of the family mausoleum alongside mother and father, the reliquary of Daniel's dusty remains, a torment of memories and the muted drum beat of a multitude of hearts that shall henceforth fall on deaf ears. "My best suit or dress. Well pressed."

"Best?" she queries, distractedly running her hand over her forearm, irked by the task I have given her. "You're gonna have to be more specific; you're pretty much always dressed like you're in mourning."

"I _am_," all but rips from my throat. I shudder. I _am_ always in mourning: grieving for my first love; for my parents; and for a life I let slip between my fingers like threads of sweet-smelling smoke. I consider my final resting place and the revellers that might defile it. Worse still, I think of Whale and his necrotomical tendencies. Fear wells in my stomach. "Don't bury me," I demand in an almost-shout.

"But you said -"

"_Burn me_."

Her expression cracks. "Let me get help. Please. If I can get word to Mary Margaret -"

"No, she'll tell Henry and I don't want him to know because he'll want to be with me until the end." Plus I still haven't discounted Snow from my list of possible executioners. Who knows what she might have brought back from Neverland.

"She _can_ keep a secret," Emma replies without forethought.

Snow White and keeping secrets? "Now there's a notion that fills me with _hope_," comes my sarcastic retort. Well, honestly, does she actually believe that her mother would be capable of _not_ telling Henry?

"Okay," she concedes, well aware of how right I am. Running her red-coated thumbnail over her lips, her expression becomes blank. The cogs are turning. A flutter of her eyelashes. She has realized something. "You didn't just ask me here to give me the check, did you? You wanted me here because you... don't want to die alone."

I could ask myself that and not know the answer. We're back to our earlier question of why do I converse with her at all. Why? Why do I find it necessary to keep her close by? "I don't need you hold my hand and whisper sweet nothings as I depart, if that's what you mean." Not that she would; I believe such mawkish sentimentality nauseates her as much as it does me. "But I may require you to -" I lick my lips and pause to consider how to express such a detail "- discretely attend to my body. I don't want Henry to find me in a crumpled heap, blood dripping from my lips."

She looks at me like I am a corpse already, and is disgusted by this gruesome figure of death. "Is that... is that how this ends?" she asks, evidentially unnerved by these visions.

"I have no idea. Only that - with this sort of... ailment - death usually comes when the heart is consumed by the magic. Beyond that, I have no concept of what my demise will be like." I wrap my left arm around my middle, rest my right elbow upon my supporting wrist and tap nervously at my temple.

Emma has that sickeningly optimistic glint again. I wish that would stop happening. "Then we'll take out your heart," she asserts, stepping forward and pointing at my chest.

I laugh derisively, pushing her hand away. "If you take my heart, I won't be able to feel; not properly." Somehow that is more frightening than death.

"You'd be alive. It'd buy us time."

"So... what? I take ten minutes to teach you how to remove my heart, you bungle the action and accidentally kill me. Yes, why not, why not _skip_ to the finish line?" Naturally, I could remove it myself, but I know better. My mother was evil _without_ a heart; look at what I have done to those around me _with_ a heart. Who knows what kind of hellish tyrant I would become if I could not feel. I cannot take that risk. I won't. And who is to say I won't die regardless; there is no reason for this poison to conform to convention. To die without a heart. I refuse. "Why don't you put me out of my misery?" The request comes out as part of a juddering breath. "Go on. Shoot me like you would a lame horse. Surely you have your gun here. Is it in your jacket?" Swiftly, I go to stride past her, but she catches me by the waist and pulls me to her. I struggle against her increasingly firm hold, but fail to pull away. The rigid edges of her sheriff's badge press painfully at my hip as I push at her strong upper arms and torso, but it is to no avail.

"_Don't_," she orders with adamantine certainty, her mouth close to my cheek.

As I lean back and unsuccessfully try to prise her fingers from my sides, I stare at that one silly tooth of hers; the one that falls slightly out of line like a wilting soldier. I can't stop looking. That faint crease in her chin too catches my eye. The swell of her wincing cheeks as my slim fingernails scrape at her skin. I am drawn to her bright eyes and the indiscernible color of those oceanic irises that alter in the ever-changing light of day, flashing more green when her reactions have cause to be impassioned. My throes of resistance reduce and, suddenly, I stop fighting. And so she is simply holding me. Again. For the second time in so many disappearing minutes. This curious creature, this woman, has disarmed me. And, no matter how much I want to, I don't even mind. "Some lives are not worth saving," I say, just to provoke a response.

"I said: _don't_." The intonation this time is calmer but no less serious. "Now tell me _everything_ Gold said."

Fools rush in, as the poem goes, where angels fear to tread. "Very well," I respond to the fool in my arms. "Very well."

* * *

"I don't even belong to this world and yet I know more of your culture and history than you do," I comment brusquely.

"With all due respect, _Reg_ -" she blurts the diminutive in such a way that it rhymes with _dredge_; I am suitably unimpressed "- we've both been on this fair land for exactly the same length of time; except I spent a lot of it growing up."

Such brash impudence. "Really? Personally, I was still waiting for that to happen." I wish comebacks weren't so delicious. This, you see, is what happens when Emma and I sit down together, side by side and try to work something out. We snap, bite and growl at each other. Testing waters. Testing commitment. Testing each other's patience. Provoking short tempers to see how hotly they flare because we both crave that woundless burn.

"What kind of crazy curse teaches you how to live like we do, work a computer and drive a car?" she asks me, now genuinely interested, our little quarrel and its genesis now forgotten.

"I don't pretend to understand magic." And here I fall back into despair, recalling the cause of my current dire circumstance and consequently feeling acutely aware of the pernicious smoke swirling within. Swallowing hard, I press at my thigh and look to the fireplace grate. My future: charred remains and a smattering of ashes. My throat bobs as I attempt to draw light breaths into shuddering lungs. For the first time in my life I have no fight, only flight. I want to escape this fate, but I have no means; it is inside me, worming its way through my lungs, ready to gnaw hungrily at my heart strings until, one by one, they sever. I feel intruded upon, violently angered by this miscreant invading my physical being to steal the life from me.

"Do you miss it?" she interrupts my thoughts.

I press carefully at the outer edges of my eyes with my thumb. "Miss what?"

In her hunched over position, she shrugs. "The enchanted forest. Your home. Where you were born... or whatever."

"I guarantee that I _was_ born, not hatched or grown on a patch of moss," falls glibly from my cold lips. If she weren't so lazy with her speech, I might not always have the desire to reply in such a way. Though her question has me searching for words. It seems like a simple enough concept: do I yearn for home? Well _do_ I? I find my head shaking before I have even had the chance to speak, and yet I immediately envisage the rolling hills of my youth, the crystal blue waters of the lakes and the freshness of the fields, through which I can even now recall riding. It has been so many years, and to what end? My life here is not what it once was. This carved-out existence is the rock and my dim and distant past: the hard place.

"It's okay to be scared," she says, aware of my discomposure.

"Do we have to? Do we _seriously_ have to do the platitudes thing?" I glance at her disdainfully and she raises her hands in a posture of surrender. Fact is, I _am_ scared and it does _not_ feel okay. The more I try to push away the fear, the more it grows like unstoppable waters flooding over arid land. I begin to think about my heart. In my mind's eye, I see its unsteady pulsation and watch as if envisioning it will keep it beating. The picture is dark. An organ so black it might have been hewn from a jet stone, polished until it shone with a brilliant lustre. "Emma. After I'm gone... please don't dwell on my negatives when speaking to Henry. I know how easy it is to speak ill of the dead. Just be -"

She waves her hand, as if I shouldn't speak of such things. "I'll be nice."

Now who's lying? How long before everything good about me is tarnished? Until I am a thing of story book evil once again. How long before I am an unwanted suppressed memory in their minds? No matter. At least Henry will be good and true. In that I can trust. Mighty orchards from rotten apples do grow. I sigh loudly, impatiently expecting death's arrival; sitting awkwardly in this makeshift waiting room pending the arrival of... my unhappy ending. I pray for a nothing because I am terrified by the possibility of a hereafter. I would not, after all, ever transcend to any kind of existence where those I once loved might now reside. Well, all except one. I squeeze shut my eyes and a tear works its way free, cascading down my cheek with an annoying tickle, but I make sure it goes unnoticed.

"You don't believe me," Emma comments, perturbed. "Regina?" Fingers tighten around my upper arm and I am pulled around to face her. "I know I slammed you for a long time, and let's face it: you deserved a hell of a lot of that. But I see you better now."

Does she really expect her words will inspire some kind of pathos? I wish she would stop trying to set alight something in my darkness. I am inflammable; the good in me is benighted by the wickedness that lingers like an undetachable shadow. "Oh, you do, do you?"

"Your devotion to Henry used to scare me because I never learned how to love like that, and if I'm any good at it now, it's because I learned it from you," she remarks tersely. Is this lip service? If so, to what possible end? "Do you know what I would have given to have an adoptive parent like you?" She catches my eye. "Someone who would have fought _for_ me no matter how much I chose to fight with them? God, I would have given everything, Regina. _Everything_," she emphasises.

Against my will, I feel it. I feel the light that she has driven through my abdomen with her assured, pugilistic words. It feels so damned good as it squirms warmly in my stomach, burning deeply and causing a gratifying, friction-like pain, while my heart slams like a poorly battened-down hatch in a sea storm. Unable to look away, I bask in the visceral scintillation that she has awakened in me. My hands tremble. I do not know why this kindness digs so vigorously at my tender desires, like fingertips pressing at easy flesh. I want more, but how could I ever ask for it? "Stop it," I implore with a snarl.

Her brow knits with astonishment. "Stop what?"

"Making me want to live when I had already resigned myself to dying." But it is too late; the hurricane inside my chest is ripping my world to shreds, tearing open locked doors and pulling holes in all logical thought. I don't want to leave. "Help me," I beg. I take her by the hand, and suddenly it is as if our palms have melded together. A swarm of effulgent light obscures my sight and I feel as though my body and soul are being torn asunder as I am wrapped tighter and tighter still by an unknown force. "_Emma_," I screech. "_Emma_?" I continue to cry though restrained breaths as I am consumed by the blinding blackness.

* * *

I physically drop, but there is no landing. My reality has changed. It is like waking from a lucid dream to emerge into a vivid nightmare. My eyes blink open. Is this my end? My hereafter? My nothing? Darkness, with cracks of light. With trepidation, I bring my hands down from my face to find I am knelt upon cold, hard ground. A breeze sweeps through and fresh air fills my lungs. A gloved hand is proffered my way. The figure looms. I see tall, laced, worn leather boots, black riding breeches, a loose pale shirt bound to the chest with a slim-cut, woven, buttoned waistcoat.

Could it be? I dare not hope let alone look. The pound of flesh inside my chest makes a sluggish decent as it drops like a stone through hot tar. Dread. My last encounter with Daniel... I cannot even bear to think of it. The rushing gales outside this building draw my ear. Words are spoken to me, but my world is still adjusting its sensory focus. Everything is hazy and unclear, like a reflection in disturbed, rippling waters. I swallow thickly and take a preparatory breath. Unkempt hair swings into view as arms are pushed under mine and I am aided in standing. Dusting down my dark olive-green jacket, I look at my companion aghast.

"Why are you in my afterlife?" I ask, irately. I requested an afternoon with her, not an eternity. "Is nothing sacred anymore?" Well, is it?

"Afterlife?" Emma repeats, her nose wrinkling as she looks at our surroundings. "Pretty sure those are stable doors not pearly gates." I sense straw underfoot and hear the quiet snort of a horse. "And didn't you hear me before? Someone's coming and they look pissed. Regina, we _need_ to hide."


	3. Raised Stakes

_Chapter Three: Raised Stakes_

The low rumble of a troop of galloping horses grows louder and then slows to an unnerving trot. Just within earshot is the repetitive ting of what I suspect to be a sword repeatedly hitting the metal buckle of a saddle strap. Emma's gloved hand is cupped over my mouth because, _apparently,_ I talk too much. What does she expect? I have so many questions. What or who brought us here and, more pressingly, how much time do I have left? If this is not another plane of existence, then how have we travelled to the enchanted forest, and to this very spot? And, well, I am _very_ certain of where we are; I know every inch of this place.

"Shush," Emma chides as if I had been speaking my thoughts aloud. Gradually my aggravated breaths quieten and she lowers her hand. Lucky for her that she did because I was about to bite hard at that soft leather to tear at the deerskin with my teeth. "Just lay low, will you?" she scolds as I shift position.

How dare she command me? Holding my tongue and clenching my teeth, I stare at the familiar structure of rafter beams above, concentrating on what I can hear in order to quell my anger. She moves in closer. Her scent should be masked by other odors that fill the air - the ones that should be repugnant to me, but aren't - and yet I still catch the slightest trace of that pleasant smell. I am irked by the comfort it brings in this uncertain situation.

Her hip nudges mine and her arm, the upper part of which lies beneath my head, squeezes me closer until the swell of her covered breast is pressed firmly against my shoulder. Hay prickles at my cheeks and neck as I sink lower, the discomfort reminiscent of my first intimate tryst with Daniel: those flutterings of love; an exposure to lust; an escape from my narrow life, which opened my eyes to an existence I hadn't thought possible and, as hideous fate would have it, _wasn't_ possible. My groom never got a bride, and I will forever be the once mistress of a long-dead stablehand.

Stray strands of Emma's hair tickle across my throat like garrotes threatening to slice, and I can do nothing but submit to the sensation because the hinges of the stable door are creaking and now... distinct footsteps. We are shielded from view by stacked bales of straw, but more than a cursory glance would reveal our location. Without warning, she drags the piece of sack cloth that covers our bodies over our faces like a grim veil; it brings an intense, suffocating warmth as it scratches the tip of my nose, scrapes my forehead and irritates my skin.

My cheeks blaze as I feel her hesitant breaths against my ear and her knee slides up against my tense thigh. Barely able to blink, I lie deathly still and watch through the fibrous shroud, fearing our discovery when - zing - a flash of light glances off the tip of a sword as it is plunges through a bale to the right of my leg. Again and again. This time a nose bag of hay is sliced open, sending the contents spilling forth. Too close for comfort. I inhale instinctively, but catch myself and render an inaudible exhalation.

My already taut muscles freeze as the sword's owner kicks at a discarded stirrup; it rings out loudly as it crashes into a low wooden stool. In a stall at the other end of the stable, the horse nickers and stomps, huffing aggressively. The caw of a raven brings a momentary silence as the scuffle of sole leather stops. The search, for now, is over and the men depart. As they go, I cannot see faces but I can hear discussion: they speak of finding someone; a woman whom they wish to kill; and... that woman is me.

* * *

I pant for breath as, finally, Emma lets me discard the foul cloth. Getting onto all fours, I peer through a crack between two panels of wood. "Do you know them?" she queries, clearly unsurprised that they wish to seek me out and destroy me. The black-armored men cross the dewy field and disappear into the mist-shrouded horizon. I swivel around to settle on my behind and lean back against the wall.

I tug open the neck of my blouse, seeking to cool my clammy chest. There can be no doubt. "They are knights from my army."

She doesn't seem fazed by my answer. "And they're... what? Mad because you didn't take them to Storybrooke and give them nice blue collar jobs?" She crosses her legs at the ankle and knocks her boots together. Her lip curls. "Who put us in these clothes? I can't even tell what underwear I'm wearing," she comments idly, mildly disturbed. "Where are we anyway? One minute we're in your house, the next: here. I don't like it."

I too am clothed in riding-appropriate attire; the fit so natural that it barely registered on initial arrival, and my hair, it seems, is long, braided and pinned in place. "It was my father's land, now mine." I look around. There must have been a portal of some kind. Magic will be to blame. "We need to find a way to get you back." My fate is still certain, but Emma's is not, and I cannot bear the thought of Henry being raised by any or all of his grandparents, though - at a pinch - Neal would be semi-bearable. Actually, no. "There _must_ be a way." I get up, push my way through the devastation left by the soldiers and follow the soft noises of the horse. "Hello, there." I stroke his pale muzzle and reach up to comb my fingers through his auburn forelock, pleased that they chose not to harm him. "Are you sure this isn't some kind of heaven?" I whisper against his cheek, musing on how much this horse looks like...

I run my fingertips over the bridle. Bespoke. Distinct. Yes. I look up and stare at the groomsman's cloak hung alongside the saddles. No. It can't be. Not heaven, but purgatory. I make haste, thrusting open the door and running the full perimeter of the building. As I come full circle, I come to a stop as I slip in the mud, falling against the rough outer wall near a trough of water. I look far and wide, squinting in an attempt to see any figures in the fog. "Daniel? Father?" I call loudly. Then, more uncertainly: "Mother?"

Emma comes out to join me, dragging her hand along the side of the wooden wall and throwing me an expression of concern and mild annoyance. "What the hell are you doing? Those men out there want to kill you. What if they hear you yelling? Get back inside."

"That horse is Rocinante," rips from my throat like a ragged breath. "He is _my_ horse." I slap my chest with vigor as a raindrop dashes down my left temple.

"Okay," she responds, looking skyward in anticipation of precipitation. "So he's your horse. That's nice that you two have been reunited. Now what're we going to do? Is there a village near here?" she enquires, squinting at me. "Someone has got -"

"You don't understand. Rocinante is dead." My voice catches, but I continue unabated. "Buried. _Gone_. I know because I -" much to my ongoing remorse "- took his heart and sacrificed him. So either I have died and you are an aberration, or -"

"Or what?" she prompts, shaking her head.

It is impossible. It is extraordinary. It is _mortifying_. "We may have travelled into the past."

* * *

The fierce wind chafes my cheeks. Heavy rain drizzles into every crease of my clothing and is making this saddle dangerously slippery. For fear of falling, Emma hugs herself to my back, head down and jaw to my shoulder blade, her arms tight around my torso. If my breathing were not already restricted by my rigid stays, this corseting of arms would surely have me gasping through the vapor. I shake raindrops away from my weather-beaten brow as Rocinante carefully navigates across a fast-moving stream. My precious steed. Lost in vain to a revengeful cause.

For a moment, I use the reins about my hands like tourniquets, tightening off my blood supply at the wrists and then loosening again. My ability to grip is lessening as the chill in my limbs increases. The grand house, partially obscured by sheets of rain and shaded by thick dark clouds above, grows closer. A journey of seconds has taken perhaps twenty gruelling minutes due to untraversable bog-like land and a brook which had broken its banks. Regardless of who we might find at my former home, shelter is paramount.

Emma's knees dig at my thighs as she fails to compensate for Rocinante's motion and almost slides off. "_Will_ you be careful?" I tell her in no uncertain terms. "I'll be peppered in bruises if you continue to ride like a five year old on a carousel horse," I add, reaching behind me to push her into the correct position. Thunder reverberates the skies and another bolt of lightning strikes the marshlands to the west. With every blinding flash, the rain is illuminated. Closing my eyes for a moment, I concentrate. Yes, the taint of lethal magic is still there. Almost definitive proof that I am still alive. "Stop with the necromimesis, Regina, you are not dead yet," I reassure myself.

However, I still hope against all hope that this is simply an illusion and that we are not in the past because, if we are, there is one person I do not wish to see again: myself.

* * *

"Sweetheart."

I stand here in dripping wet clothes and stare incredulously at the only man of royal blood I ever truly loved. And killed. If my own soldiers are against me in this realm, what might my own father do? Is this a trick? A trap? His mutton-chop cheeks rise, and he smiles genuinely. "Daddy," I find myself saying, holding back a snivelling sob that tickles the back of my throat. I have missed him so much that suddenly I am a vile, sycophantic child again.

"I was worried," he utters. I step forward and lay a kiss on each side of his innocent face, accidentally leaving wet handprints upon his splendid, saffron-colored greatcoat. He looks to the fire wistfully and squeezes my damp arm comfortingly. Guilt stings like a wide bore needle to the chest. My own father. A man so magnanimous, he would forgive me for killing him without a second thought. But I find that I still resent him: for letting me become what I became; for not holding a mirror up to my own - or my mother's - acts of evil; and for meekly standing by while she sought to destroy my life so that she might live vicariously through the hardened shell of a woman that she knew I would develop into. He was obsequious, pandering and weak. "Your horse, you brought him here?" he asks thoughtfully.

And I _do_ love him so. "I've put him in with the carriage," I explain. "It's warmer and -"

"Yes, good, horses and lightning," he interrupts. "Quite. Best kept close, eh?" He smiles again, forgetfully scratching at his forehead. He looks so much younger than when I last saw his downtrodden, servile self: his hair has more color; eyes brighter; and there still resides some esteem in his heart for me. Clearly, this is a time before Mother and I had fully broken his spirit. "You haven't been quite been yourself since..." he mutters cautiously, patting at his pockets for his pipe, "oh, let's not bring it up again." His voice lowers to a whisper. "Your mother may come back any moment and, well, water under the bridge, mm?"

She is here? Wood sap pops and sizzles in the blazing fire and my heart begins to burn. I press my pursed lips to the whitening knuckles of my tightening fist. Yes, I know to what he is referring: I hadn't _quite_ _been myself_ since I watched my mother murder Daniel. My lip twitches with harsh, unspoken words. How ghastly it sounds to hear Father belittle the devastating crush of pain that I suffered, and speak of it as if I were suffering from ennui or a petty migraine. Pulling my shoulders back, I take a deep breath. My love is not here; I will not see him again. Mother's last words, which I had begun to hold dear, seem meaningless in this moment. "Where is she?" I choke out, a bitterness I had not tasted in well over thirty-five years marring my ability to speak without a sneer. Storms usually arose with her foul moods; she must be somewhere close by.

"Oh, I don't know, dearest one." Father's hands flutter nervously at his sides. "She disappeared after you ran out to go riding."

I can recall the argument that had sent me scurrying to a place where I once found peace. Recalling the scene is not necessary since I realize I have just relived the event. Well, to a point. I had knelt upon that spot - the place where Daniel died - and cried my silly little heart out for hours, then - when the tears had subsided - I rode aimlessly through the storm. I never made it very far; a veritable moat had formed around our land, over which I could not pass. I distinctly recall the rush of rapid waters, taunting and begging me to hurl myself over the edge so that I might dash my head open against the rocks. How I longed to watch my blood flow freely, for it to wash away as I slipped into a sweet, blissful oblivion where Daniel would take my hand.

A thought occurs to me. Have I somehow jumped back into my own life to try and alter the timeline of my existence? I don't want that. Even if I could right my wrongs. Even if I could have my father back. I wouldn't. Because not only would my son not be mine, he would never _exist_. "I'm sorry," I say under my breath just as Father also begins to speak.

"I'm sorry, I don't believe we've been introduced." He looks past me and I remember that - this time around - I have not come alone.

"Nice to meet you, Mr Mi-" It suddenly seems to occur to Emma that she has no idea of his name or how to address him "- uh, sir," she finishes uncertainly, looking at me wide-eyed as if I should have helped her. And why should I? Frankly, I am insulted that Snow has not spoken to Emma of my family and its lineage. My father kisses the back of her outstretched hand as if she is a lady of note. Hilarious. At once I recall that she _does_ have a direct claim to the throne, and the thought of this gives me an absolute sense of despair accompanied by a twinge of nausea.

"Prince Henry, Duke of Larksgrave," he introduces himself, a semblance of pride in the title still remaining despite his lack of power and wealth. How sweet he is. How foolish. "Delighted to make your acquaintance." Emma almost looks happy to be here. They talk about the bad weather. It feels off. Just plain weird.

"Daddy," I say. Again the familial term of endearment comes naturally. Strange how easy it is to regress. "Excuse us for a moment." I take Emma by the arm and pull her out into the corridor. Once out of sight, I roughly pin her against the wall. "_Answer me_: did you do this? Did you bring us here?" I accuse, glaring her full in the eye, my body pressed firmly against her rain-saturated, bedraggled frame. This excuse for a woman is not fit to wear Daniel's cloak about her shoulders.

"What? _No_!" She pushes back, but not enough to set herself free. "You think I just pulled your past out of my ass? Jesus, Regina. You know that makes no sense," she insists. Her hands are on my hips beneath my coat, thumbs dig at my stomach as fingers vigorously press at my sides, sliding around to my spine and back again. It is as if she is measuring the girth of my waist. What next? Cup size? Regardless of her physical protestations and words of innocence, I fall against her harder. I cannot let myself trust her. Outside the relentless wind intensifies, loudly ripping branches from trees and sending them crashing to the ground.

"You healed my hand," I remind her. She shivers beneath my touch and frowns. Candlelight dances in the darkness of her pupils. "You've been learning magic without me, haven't you?" I suggest. "Was it Gold? Mm? Has he been giving you private tutelage? Are you working in collusion with him?"

"I didn't heal you, and I'm not _colluding_ with anyone. Stop it." With a brutal shove, I am forced away and the action winds me. I curl over and hold my stomach as she looks down on me. "We're both scared, Regina, but you _cannot_ use it as an excuse to fight with me. We can't keep doing that; it's wastes time," she iterates clearly.

"Why are you being nice to my father?" I query, suspicion still lurking at the back of my mind.

"Because, unlike you, he's not a huge jerk," Emma retorts. "I'm guessing you named Henry after him because he's actually a good guy?" she surmises correctly, if boorishly. I bite the inside of my cheek and brush loose threads of my hair out of my eye line. "We need to be careful," she continues. "If we change the past, you won't cast the curse, I won't get sent away, and I will never meet Neal. Our son will pop out of existence. You think I would jeopardize his life by announcing: 'hey, guess what? I gave birth to your future grandson, and I'm here to say hey'." She winces and looks at me with absolute incredulity, hands in the air in a posture of frustration.

"Very well." I straighten up and swivel on my heel to face away from her, breathing deeply. I am the fool: seeking a fight because I have so much hatred building inside and no other unyielding body on which I can wield these fists of wrath. I remember what it was like to be here and now: young and crushed. These events changed me forever. It was the last straw upon this camel's back before I broke in two and discarded the weaker part like a snake sloughing off its second skin. I turn to look at my dreary, water-stained likeness in the ornate wall mirror. My hardened, scowling expression keeps this ill-painted portrait from melting into the world's canvas. I am one step away from my dreaded destiny; I can feel death breathing down my neck.

A rage of thunder rumbles, louder this time, and yet another flash of lightning rents the sky. A violent gust of wind causes the adjacent window's quarry glass to shake, the turnbuckle begins to rattle violently, and - as if to mock me - the looking-glass cracks from side to side, splicing my image in two with a hairline grin across my neck. With a strong gust of wind, all the candles' flames are extinguished and wisps of sulphurous smoke swirl around us like inert puffs of magic. Emma's muted voice seeps through the ongoing sound of the assailing deluge. "That place where we ended up - the stables - was that where your fiancé died?" she asks, shivering and stepping forward to join me in looking at our mottled reflection. Her eyelashes flutter and she places her hand on my shoulder. I wish the weight of it were heavier, more distinct, so that I might feel that she is truly real. I cannot quite bring myself to nod in reply to her question. Instead my mind drifts. If mere days have gone by since Daniel's demise, then those men who wish to kill me are either as anachronous as we are or they cannot be who I suspected them to be.

There comes the noise of a knock at the main doors; not a simple command for entrance, but a tremendous bang that arouses my senses and sends sharp prickles of fear scratching up my spine. Again it sounds out, muffling my hearing like drowning waters. Slam. Again. It sings this time, echoing through the castle walls like the ring of a large, iron bell. I have no recollection of this startling event in my past. "Here," I hear Emma say. She is offering me her interlocked hands on which to tread and hoist myself up. I take a second, cringing at the thought. "Come on. I won't drop you," she reassures.

My hand on her shoulder, I step gently onto her upturned palms and she takes my weight as I support myself against the wall to fling wide the window. Leaning out I suffer another dose of cloud-bursting rain and as water cascades over my ears and falls from my lips, I see them below: the knights or guardsmen or soldiers that I _thought_ I knew. Together, they swing a large battering ram and metal hinges buckle as every wall-shaking thump reverberates uncomfortably through my sternum. One of the group rips the helmet from his head and casts it to one side. As it rolls away like a dismembered head, he points in my direction. "There, yonder. It's her. Barricade the exits."

I am hunted. I am a prisoner. Wide-eyed and aquiver, I feel a tingling sensation in my leg. Straining to maintain her lift, Emma is breathing hotly, her cheek pressed against my tense thigh muscle. I find that I have leaned a little too far forward, and the sheer height is making me dizzy. My stomach flip-flops like a fish out of water. "Let me down," I command uneasily, fearing a well-aimed arrow to the eye. My hands drag roughly down the wall, the nails of one scratching over lime mortar and the fingertips of the other clawing at a hanging tapestry. "Gently," I dictate. I feel her consistent strength as she carefully lowers me to the floor. Once set down, I see she is kneeling before me, looking up as if in expectation of a tap to the shoulder with a sword and the bestowal of a knighthood.

"Well?" she prompts as she stands.

I wipe droplets from my cheeks. "It is the men from before. And I do not believe we would survive another game of hide and go seek." A lump forms in my throat and constricts every inhalation. Though I hate to say it, I am frightened, but I will not let it show.

"You've got to use magic," she suggests, furrowing her brow. "Come on. Do it. Do the phwomph thing where we disappear and appear somewhere else."

"No." Just no.

She looks like I have just dealt her a slap. I have riled her. Her jaw is clenching and her eyes have a certain clarity of adamant expression. If I continue to deny her, she may tackle me to the ground. Plow me down, Emma, I challenge silently. I dare you to try and make me submit to your whim and fancy. Push me to my limit and see where I break.

"What do you mean: no?" she asks defiantly.

"I'm sure you have heard the word before, and are well aware of its meaning." The sands of time are draining fast. I sense my imminent death approaching and, right now, I would rather be run through with a sharp blade than die at the hands of a pathetic poison. "Go with my father, he will take you to the tunnels under the castle. Find Rumple... Gold... whatever. I'm sure he will help you find a way back. If he tries to make you sign anything, approach someone else with magical knowledge." My teeth scrape over my bottom lip. "Except my mother. No good can come of speaking to her; she destroys everything I..." I look at Emma, considering that this is goodbye and I cannot help but wonder if I matter to her "... just everything."

"No," she replies with certainty.

"What do you mean: no?" I ask her with a subtly-questioning quirk of my eyebrow.

"I'm sure you've heard the word before," she mocks, "and are _well_ aware of its meaning."

"Funny," I respond mirthlessly.

"I'm not leaving without you."

Ugh. Tiresome. "Well you'll _have_ to because I'm not going anywhere. Stop trying to be a hero. Go back to your quaint little town and your son and your mommy and daddy and nice little friends, and live happily ever after _without_ me. Go on," I instruct, notes of jealousy audible in my loudly-spoken words. "Flutter off and let me be." I can feel an unshakeable sensation of anger bubble up inside me. My lip curls. "Leave me to die and save yourself."

Her chest rises and falls with small, pitiful breaths as she looks at me with a strange awe and determination. "That's not how we do this, Regina." She wets her lips. "You are not a coward."

"You don't even know me," I reply tersely. Cocksure, she tilts her head and just stares at me. A tickle at the back of my neck makes my eyelashes flutter shut. "So help me, Emma Swan," I bite back caustically, "you will be the end of me."

I feel her fingertips slip over my wrist and, in a strange gesture of companionship, she holds my hand and squeezes hard. "If you won't do magic, then we head to the -" Her words are lost in an aural fog of rumbling noise. I open my eyes and she disappears only to be replaced by a white swarm of light which whirls around me. My ribs are compressed, my lungs unable to take a breath. No ground beneath my feet, no Emma by my side. Again the tether between us has been cut, and I do not know if we will be separated forever or even if she is safe. What open jaws await? What land or time or illusion?

* * *

The clothes I am wearing peel away to be replaced with a long, simple hessian dress that wraps itself around my body seamlessly. I look down with blurred sight at plainly-slippered feet, to see cold, damp flagstones. The brightness falls and shadows settle all around. I immediately reel back at the stench of mildew and cover my nose and mouth by with my sleeve. Pain blazes through my head for just a second before dissipating slowly.

The barest slice of sunlight and a breeze leads me to a slim, glassless window and fresher air, but a door with bars prevents access. I know this place, and it makes my skin crawl. To the other side of the room are arched, diamond-leaded windows. Cautiously, I peer out and bite my tongue at the sight. In the courtyard far below - a post is being erected as bowmen perfect the points of their arrows, and a small, blue glow - presumably that obnoxious flying squid, Blue Fairy - oversees the preparation of an unforgettable event: my execution. This time around, I do not expect to be pardoned.

The scene plays on and takes me by surprise. Can it be? Yes, a second post is being carried upon the shoulders of four dwarves as they march forth like pall-bearers with a coffin. My pulse begins to race as they hoist it to standing and begin to create a structure fit for two. Have I fallen into an alternate timeline where I had a companion for my evil deeds? I look to my right, aware of the fact that this round turret has a second room. I examine the wall, scanning along to seek out a particular stone two feet above floor level. Falling heavily to my knees, I scrape at the crumbling mortar until it becomes loose and I can push through with a shove. I swipe at the hole to brush away the debris, grazing my knuckles in the process. Though the falling haze, I can see into the adjacent cell. A person lies motionless, curled up in a heap on her side.

My suspicions were not unfounded: it is Emma. And, if I am right, four of those arrows are being sharpened for her.


	4. Trapped

_Chapter Four: Trapped_

Movement. My chest shudders with a grateful gasp. I can breathe at last. Emma's hand makes a sweeping motion, her nails dragging through dust, palm pressed to the floor. Slowly, her crumpled figure sits up and dizzily holds her head. Soft hair falls messily about her shoulders as she rests her back against the far wall and glances at me though this makeshift hatch. Despite the relief, my frantic heart pumps madly, causing blood to rush fiercely in my ears. I can barely swallow.

"Did you have to shout so much? My head is pounding." Her voice scratched and weary. If she is aware of my anguish, it doesn't show.

"I thought you might be dead already," I explain, my hands aching as, for the second time, I fruitlessly attempt to further enlarge the hole by pushing at the surrounding stones.

"Already? Thanks. That's really comforting, Regina." She pulls at her unflattering gray smock, unfastens the laced neckline and scratches her reddened throat. "So was that you or another portal?" I tell her portal. It's only a guess, of course, but guessing is all we have. Her eternally-confused, arched eyebrows rise as she takes in her surroundings. "So where are we now?"

I cannot bring myself to warn her of her potential fate. "Incarcerated by your parents." My eyes narrow instinctively while my jaw and fists tighten simultaneously. "I was locked away and sentenced to death by a council of my peers, or should I say _your_ friends. They are such delightful people to know," I add sarcastically, gulping back the cold dread climbing my gullet.

"Seriously?" She hugs her knees to her chest, her expression doubtful.

"Use your infamous super power. Am I lying?" I glare.

"No, but -"

"But then nothing," I bite back. "The rules in this land are different. There are few who have not spilled another's blood. There was a time when your father would have spliced my head open with his sword and rejoiced in the sight. Hundreds would have cheered." Perhaps hundreds still will. "I faced that firing line head on." I stared death in the face. I almost welcomed it.

She gives me a look, but not one I would expect. Strangely, I imagined that she would relish the thought, but her eyes dart with confusion and sympathy. "But you obviously didn't die here, so..."

Now there is a fact I cannot dismiss. "Your mother was naïve: she assumed she could change who I was with an act of mere benevolence." I shrug as if it were meaningless. "But this time it's different." This time I might not get a reprieve, and the death toll may be two.

"Different how?" Emma's voice is closer.

"Just different." I concentrate, staring at the face of an ugly gargoyle whose beady eyes bore into me: watching me; judging me; pitying me. This feels as real to me as it did back then. The room is intentionally uninviting, housing a single candle with which to create a little light and warmth for the pitch-black nights. A few paces away is narrow bed comprising a bench and a blanket on which I once lay awake and considered an impossible escape. As I let my line of sight drift, a more shocking revelation occurs to me: this is a veritable _palace_ compared to the dungeons I have placed people in.

I look down at my hand and, knowing it will not work in this room, I allow myself an attempt at creating a flame on my palm. My assumptions were correct. "And before you ask: I can't use magic here," I call out. Sensing her thought process, I interrupt before she has the chance to so much as open her mouth. "I very much doubt your magic will work here either." I run my fingertips over my lips, absently watching the clouds sail by while listening to the endless hubbub of noise from the townspeople within the castle's ramparts. 'Death,' I imagine they chant merrily, 'death to the evil queen.' It is so much easier to hate when you are hated. I move to sit on the small, uncomfortable seat beside the window and pointlessly rub my dirtied hands on the frayed hem of this simple dress.

"Are you okay?" Emma asks, now peering through the gap at me.

Thoughts of setting her in stone to become another wall-mounted gargoyle amuse me for all of two seconds until the slam of a mallet hitting the second wooden post shocks me, and the notion of her death instills in me an awful terror once again. They might as well have staked my heart and be hammering it home. "I'm fine," I growl, flustered by the fact that I am not alone in my fate. Why did the portal bring her? Why not just me? This is all clearly intended for my benefit. I cannot handle the idea of Emma being dragged to her end. And for what? For me to pay for my past sins? My heaving chest sags. The idea of leering crowds cheering as arrows plunge into her body is just...

"You look pale," she comments idly.

"I _do_ apologize," I snap. "I'll ask if they have any rouge here. Maybe order a little room service while I'm at it, shall I?" I glance around. "Oh dear, I can't seem to find a telephone to call down. What a muddle were in. If you scream, maybe we'll get lucky and they'll send someone to _cut_ out your _tongue_," I reply with intended vitriol.

"_Jeez_, Regina, you really do get snarky when you're in a fix, don't you? _Wow_." She shakes her head as if to imply I am broken in some way, like a child's speaking toy with a randomly-inappropriate voice box. Resting her fists against her cheeks, she blows air between her lips. "What now?"

My eyelashes flutter as I pause, my face still strained with incredulity. How can she so blithely sidestep my vicious comment? Is it because she knows I don't really mean it or because I am not a threat? "Well either I die up here from poisoning or out there from multiple puncture wounds to major organs. It's a win win for all involved." Question is: why don't I mean it? I once would have. The me who was originally locked up here would have fantasized about it. Who am I now? It pleasures me to tease her, to taunt her, but the idea of actually hurting her is entirely repugnant to me.

Emma's shoulders slump. She looks around thoughtfully. Her tongue strokes her top lip as she contemplates a rescue she could not possibly plan for. "Can you remember anything that might help?" she enquires. "Any events from when they took you down before? Something we could use as a diversion?" She looks at me like I am a stray animal about to be exterminated. I cannot bear it. "Any opportunities you didn't take advantage of?"

Only one springs to mind: a _genuine_ apology with _true_ remorse might have bought me an instant chance at freedom. It's a thought that makes me cringe even now. No one could say a simple sorry for what I did. It doesn't work like that. I could be good now, but I cannot make up for what has been done before. There is no apology that would ever be repentant enough. I can't even sound it out in my head. Tears rise in my eyes just considering it. I cannot imagine how to repair such damage. It was always far easier to rationalize such acts because to say that it was wrong is to know that I was wicked beyond belief. To admit to such crimes would hang, draw and quarter and my already-shredded soul. "I thought you said that we shouldn't change the past," I mutter indignantly.

"And you said this wasn't your past."

Touché. "We can't be sure. Just because there are differences, does not mean this isn't my history. It _could_ mean someone is trying to orchestrate a change." And, to me, it seems as though someone is trying to kill us both. Naturally - even though I doubt he would put Henry at risk - Gold is still my main suspect. After all, he once turned this queen into a pawn and manoeuvred me into a position where I cast the curse that would ultimately provide a gateway to his son. He is an expert in bending people to his will, and I do not wish to be so easily led again. Ever. By anyone. Except, perhaps -

"Yeah, well you didn't die before." Emma combs her fingers through tangled hair and stretches her neck, "so we need to make sure you don't die this time either."

My fool has a point. "Loathed as I am to say it... you may be right." I close my eyes and press hard at the lids until color swirls. "But that fact doesn't actually tell us how to escape the scene of our execution."

"Our?" she mutters sweetly. Damn it. I don't look because I know the light tone of voice will not match the expression. "Regina. What do you mean: _our_?" A piece of stale bread bounces off my forehead. "They're going to kill me too, aren't they?" bitterly wrenches from her throat. I can feel the emotional torment radiating from her. Yet again I have been the cause of her unhappiness and a hazard to her safety.

"Not necessarily." Taking shallow breaths, I tap at the table repeatedly and tilt my head. "But you are locked up with me. It's possible that someone has planted you in my lifeline and given you a role to play." I don't want to be to blame because if she begins to hate me again, I will fall into the trap of hating her in return.

"Timeline," she huffs, her expression darkening.

"_What_?" What is she talking about now?

"You said lifeline when you meant timeline."

"No." No, I didn't. Surely not. Disquieted, I swallow hard. "I intended to say lifeline. The line of my life," I explain, attempting to smooth over the cracks with a blatant lie. Emma sees right through it, of course. "Shut up," I scold brusquely, stamping out the words on the tip of her tongue before she makes something of it and begins to imply that I see her as my savior and a pivotal figure in my life. "This is not the time for pettiness." But maybe this is the time to die. I was ready once before. I could be again. I would always rather smash the hourglass than watch the bulb run clear.

I hear Emma take a deep breath. "Can we... can we somehow _make_ a portal happen?"

Again hope pounces upon me and makes an odd union with fear; these strange bedfellows strip away any acceptance of death I once had. "I hadn't thought of that." Desperate breaths dry my lips as I try to think of how to force another jump to any place and any when. Holding my forehead, I stand and pace. Out of the window, I spy a new set of soldiers lining up, eight in all. All with bows. All dressed in blackened armor and elaborate insectile helmets. Behind me the staircase echoes the distinctive sound of a metal gate being unlocked and swung open. There is no use: I cannot make a portal happen because I do not know how it was done or from whence it came. I rush to the hole in the wall and to Emma. She looks at me dolefully. "I will demand they take me first." She goes to get up, but I reach through and grab her forearm. "No, no. Emma, you need to listen to me."

"Okay," she concedes, her gray-tinged, distant eyes telling stories of her uncautious youth. I suddenly remember that this is not the first time she had spend time under lock and key, and she is unnerved by all of this. Goose flesh rises on her skin. Emma's eyelashes flutter, her cheek flush and her lips thin. "I'm listening," she says with a nod, turning her ear to me ever so slightly. But I have no words prepared. Only pleading, regretful looks that make the sight of her blur with rising salt waters. I squeeze her arm reassuringly and half smile. A plan is forming, but it is not pretty. Long ago I would have let the Charmings slay their daughter, then gleefully revealed her kinship with my dying breath. Now? Now I would do anything to have her return home safely. But why? For Henry. Yes, that is the reason.

They're coming. I listen to the familiar crescendo of heavily trodden footsteps and try to calculate how much further the men need to ascend before they reach us. It is high; more than that I cannot recall. A rush of words come as the idea blooms and unfurls in my mind. I speak in a quiet, certain voice. "The spiral stairwell is narrow. They will put us in manacles and will send me down the steps first, guards fore and aft." They must not take her first; I must make sure of that. Blood rushes in my ears and I shiver. This - our only plan - will be my last. Our eyes meet. "I will let myself trip." If I'm lucky, the fall will break my neck.

Emma blinks rapidly and wetly, horror sallowing her cheeks. Thankfully, she seems to understand my intentions. "You can't." She tries to pull out of my grasp, but I latch on again, my thumb digging forcefully at her cool wrist. I can feel her pulse; it throbs insistently. She has a chance that I do not. A chance that I cannot let slip away.

A distant, audible jangle of a key sets me on edge. "Push as many guards as you can. Watch them fall like dominoes. Tread on their heads if you have to," I say through gritted teeth. "Just get out and _run_."

Her chest heaves as she takes in my proposition. "I won't let you do that."

"You _must_ help me to save you," I urge as she successfully pulls away from me and shakes her head. "Please," I beg. It is not a heroic act; I simply have nothing else to offer. A good deed at most. I will die today, one way or another. At least this is my decision; I demand the right to choose my own fate. I look to the floor. Suddenly, her hand is at the side of my face, her trembling thumb lightly pushing at my cheekbone. It becomes wet; I didn't even realized a tear had slipped free. "You can't stop me, Emma. You have no choice," I whisper. As she shoots me a look of despair and gratitude, my lips accidentally brush and drag against the heel of her palm. I inhale reflexively.

"Regina, I..."

Her words fade. The room tilts around me as I am pulled sharply backwards through a fog of white. Invisible restraints encircle my waist, winding round and round like a thread about a cotton reel, tighter and tighter still, and - with no physical surroundings at which to grab - my arms hang limp as I stare wide-eyed at the void that envelopes me once again, obscuring my vision like an oozing ink that covers my unblinking eyes. I unwillingly submit to the restriction as heavy weights are applied to my hips, ear lobes and neck. Silk slides over my arms as a sharp pain digs at my sinuses and I feel like I have taken a hit to the head. This time I am less afraid; I just want to know where I will end up, and whether I will not be alone.

* * *

Flashes of glittering lights come into view. Again. Again. Again. Faster and faster. I am standing. No, I am spinning. My posture is rigid, my arms held in a strict frame as if posed like a mannequin. Another set of arms hold me up and keep me turning. Music plays. My feet - bound into tight, heeled shoes - step faster and faster until my sight completely returns. The blurred shape before me becomes clearer. _Leopold_. Bile rises in my throat. I stumble. As I fall, I see many concerned faces draw around me, and - as the back of my head makes contact with the polished floor - I see the elaborately-painted ceiling fade to black.

* * *

Blearily, I take in my surroundings and then... I slam shut my eyes and cover my face with my hand. No. No. No. Go away. Go away. My brittle sanity is a hair's breadth from snapping. What horror is this? What foul situation? Who would play a joke so cruel? To be thrown from one prison to another. A trap to a trap. Let me go back to my turret jail and my damp stone walls. I would rather die in agony there than -

"You slipped, are you quite all right?" the outwardly-virtuous, pesky child says to me, soothing my forehead with her tiny, irritating fingers.

Repulsion sits close upon my skin like uncomfortably humid air. I cannot bear another look in her direction. "I'm fine. As you said, just a slip, dear." It takes all the muscles in my face not to snarl as I sit up. If this is truly an illusion, then I could strangle her and no one need ever know. "I need air," I choke out as a signal for my much-needed exit. From behind, strong arms latch onto my waist and help me to stand. As I am guided uneasily from the room, I chance a look back and relax when I see the child remain with her father.

The weight of this shamelessly-ostentatious - I look down and, yes, it is as I thought - _wedding_ dress stifles my movement as I try to swiftly march away. I want nothing more than to strip away these trappings, the first of many shackles in what would become my personal regal prison. I want to stand blissfully naked while I watch them burn, diamonds and all. The familiar portraits, statues and fine potteries lining the walls make my stomach lurch, and I scowl as the dread that once I felt upon a certain realization - that after a wedding day comes a wedding night - seeps back into my heart. I spit on the memory. Here is a time that is best left to _rot_. Why did I ever willingly choose a loveless marriage? Why is power so disgustingly seductive? Maybe I _do_ ask too many questions.

I no longer think I have been sent back to change the past; rather I believe someone is trying to molest me with these painful re-visitations. Suddenly, I notice that I am not being escorted by a maidservant, but by a woman in an elegant, sparkling blue-gray gown with a determined gait. She twinkles behind me like a dying star in the night sky. The stunning brightness that surrounds her like an aura of beauty initially obscures my view like the flare of a newly-sparked, naked flame, but there can be no mistaking her hushed voice. "We got out of that by the skin of our -" Emma stumbles, trips and almost knocks us into a marble pillar. Expletives tumble from her mouth.

"Have a _care_," I scold, "our escape will be for nothing if you knock us both out."

Checking that we are quite alone, she thrusts me out onto the balcony and closes the doors behind us with a solemn click. Luscious, pinned curls cascade down her back, and I gaze as their swaying dance slows. Hands still upon the handles, Emma first sighs with relief and then takes a deep breath of air to steel herself. I lean against the cast iron rail, my chest sagging deeply with every heavy exhalation. As the setting sun warms my back and the tinkling laughter of courtiers and nobility filters through the delicate sound of string instruments, I realize how strangely out of place I feel. This is no longer my world. Did I ever truly belong here?

"Who was that weird, annoying kid?" Emma asks, wiping at her brow with the back of her wrist and blinking over-dramatically.

"Your mother, dear," I respond with an unconcealed, self-satisfied smirk.

"Holy crap." Emma looks at me agape with fists on her padded hips. I simply stare and raise my hands. "Okay. I'm guessing I really do take after my dad." Staring intently at me with narrowed eyes, she moves closer with an uneven step, then another and another. It is almost as if she is nervous. I have never seen such trepidation in her before. Almost toe to toe, she stops, glances up and down, then drops to the floor like a sunken soufflé. With an expression of frustration she begins pulling at my dress and then, after a few discontented sighs, dives _under_. "What the hell?" she comments.

My thoughts exactly. "Miss Swan," I cry, the use of her forename feeling a little too cordial for current use. "What _are_ you doing?" She tinkers like a mechanic under a car hood. Blush rises in my cheeks as I freeze on the spot. With a yank, I feel two of my underskirts rip at the waist. This is the strangest sort of welcome violation.

"You could build a home for a family of three out of this thing," she adds without humor, her voice muffled by layers of fabric as her knuckles press roughly at my upper leg muscles. "This is more difficult than safe-cracking: I need a flashlight, wire-cutters and a crowbar."

"What..." I begin. "Never mind." I'm sure her motives are admirable. They - incidental mention of prior larceny aside - usually are. "_Oh_," I groan, caught off guard by a surprising bolt of distinct pleasure and pain that shocks the muscles of my abdomen when the firm structure that provides the wide frame for my dress is tugged firmly upon. Grasping at the rail behind me, I find myself letting out a sharp gasp. Emma apologises immediately. Sorry? I'm not, and, besides, she doesn't sound all that genuine anyway. It feels dramatic and erotic to be so handled in such a way. I can't help but enjoy the sensation of fingers pushing at my waist, hips, thighs and the intimate proximity of another human being. "Dear God," I exclaim under my breath. No matter that it is her. No matter.

"Okay, I think I got it." She emerges and stands before me, fine satin gathering in her hands as she lifts the hem to my chest and instructs me to hold it in place as she unties the cage that is tightly knotted over my corset. Given my empirical knowledge, she could have asked me to do this myself, but she didn't. Why? I try not to, but I breathe her in as she diligently works her fingers with indefatigable dexterity. One, two, three tugs gyrate my pelvis forward before - in a moment of pure gratification - the crinoline and bone contraption falls away, slumping to the floor like a lifeless skeleton.

My physical burden has been lightened; I feel as light as air. Now if only I had a lit match to celebrate my partial disrobing. "It feels _so_ good to get off," I say without pause. Her eyes dart up and find mine. I let the front of my gathered dress drop and it unfurls, slowly slipping between us. I am not sure if she understands that I would have her do that over and over again. And again. And again. Can she see it in my expression, in my parted lips and heave of my chest? "To get _it_ off. It feels so good to get _it _off." I give her a look of disgust and dismay as I tear the crown from my head and let it drop with a clang upon the tiled floor. Her suggestive smile makes my stomach ache with newly-created tension. This will be my last ever sensual experience. How thoroughly depressing.

"Ladies first." She nods, hitching up her own dress around her middle to rip away her hip pads and petticoats.

"First for what?" I ask impatiently.

She points vaguely in the direction of the forest and then takes a chair to wedge beneath the door handles to form a barricade. "I'm guessing you didn't see what the musicians were wearing? Let just say that their outfits were a little over the top for a ball: no one needs a sword to play the harp."


	5. A Running Pair

_Chapter Five: A Running Pair_

Birds fly overhead, seeming to be as eager as I am to flee this territory. Absently, I watch their effortless path as I fail to find a firm footing between thorned flowers in the dying light. The moon is already visible and so large in the sky. For a moment, I stop and hold steady against the wall to feel the buffeting winds upon my bare shoulders and the sting of raw scratches to my ankles. I cannot help but consider how different my life might have been had I fled the castle this very night. "Why did I stay?" I wonder aloud with a long sigh. "What possessed me?" I am ashamed of the weakness in my younger self.

"You can do it," Emma calls down to me in a hushed, uncertain tone like an embarrassed parent at a Little League game. This is not me. This is not what I do. But I _can_ do it. And I _will_. Especially if, secretly, she believes I cannot. Begrudgingly, I continue my descent and — after further infuriating fumbles — I reach the ground, stride away and flop down onto the grass. Unhooking my heavy earrings, I angrily toss them into a nearby fountain and lean back to watch Emma struggle with her dress; it has snagged on the stonework and rips loudly after a particularly hard tug. Cursing her situation, she finally touches down on firm ground and walks bare-foot over to me with her shoes dangling from two fingers. "Regina, come on." She looms over me looking a complete mess: mud is streaked across her chin; locks of hair that have pulled free from an ornate clasp dangle about her ears; and her dress is in absolute tatters. It is as if her wish of a night at a grand ball has run out, and she has returned to her gauche self: a veritable Cinder-Emma.

"To what _possible_ end? We carry on, perhaps even run far, far away, but are then ripped away to continue jumping from place to place with each destination beyond our control. Where will it stop?" I have never liked indefinites. Reaching behind my head, I unfasten my bejewelled necklace, which currently serves to remind me of a restraint, a shackle, a collar of confinement. I sit up and, with a brisk movement of my arm, send it flying. The weight of it knocks the bulbous head of a stone frog clean off and one after the other they plunge into rippling waters. I grin humorlessly. Emma crosses her arms, pouts and arches her left eyebrow. She then proceeds in granting me her best queenly unamused face but, let there be no doubt, it pales in comparison to my own; no one does displeased better than I. "There is only one ending to this story," I explain, "and I very much doubt it involves you and I getting out of this together, let alone living happily ever after."

"Look." She crouches down beside me, her head hanging. Eyes to the floor, she rubs at the side of her nose. I sense a bout of sympathy or perhaps some kind of pep talk. "I can see you're getting sick of these Ghost of Christmas Past shenanigans."

"Yes, well, this is definitely the worst case of my life flashing before my eyes I've ever encountered." The worst but not the first by a long shot. I lean back on my elbows and discontentedly pull tall shards of grass from the ground in clumps.

"I bet." She looks tired. Tired of me and of the circles I have incidentally spun her in since she was an infant. "But we can't give up. You know that."

Emma has no idea that a deep, dark anger is brewing inside me, and that only her presence is keeping the fire from blazing out of control. Had she not been here, I don't know what I might have done by now. The word _slaughter_ comes to mind. This land... this place brings out the worst in me. Regret, pain and inescapable death are inevitably galvanizing, but Emma is a sobering touchstone that reminds me of home and everything I have left behind. For some reason she mollifies the demons inside. Mollifies, not silences. "You just don't want to be alone," comes my scathing reply without instruction from my conscience.

"I don't want to leave _you_ alone. There's a difference." She stares at me aghast.

"You've clearly forgotten that I'm dying," I shoot back. Yes, aha, that closed her gaping mouth. "Do you _really_ want to drag along a corpse on your journey? Why does it matter _where_ I take my last breaths and with _whom_ I take them?"

Slumping forward onto her knees, she leans in close and looks at me, not at my physical appearance but deep into my soul. My eyes glaze over as I refuse to blink. I want to know what she will see, who she will see. "Regina," she breathes almost inaudibly, as if a louder utterance of my name might conjure forth a dark spirit. Again, she says my name, but this time she only mouths it and shakes her head ever so slightly. I feel as though I have departed from reality. I sit here wraithlike and fading, already gone, already an illusion; but then Emma begins to look at me like I am the only real thing here, and so that is exactly what I feel: alive. "I'm not just going to forget what you were gonna do for me back there... at the jail."

Demurely, I clear my throat. "I offered to cause a distraction to aid an escape. That's all."

Shadows flutter across her pale neck as a strong breeze shakes the leaves of a tall tree nearby. Her posture becomes rigid and her expression stern, the muscles in her arms tighten as her hands ball into fists. The rims of her eyelids pinken and her lips blush. "We both know that's not true." She lets out a long exhalation and despite the constant pitter-pattering of the fountain, the chirrup of crickets and the distant echo of chamber music, the sound is so crystal in its clarity that she might as well have sighed with her lips pressed directly to my ear. Unbidden, muscles deep down low clench hard, and I am briefly forced to recoil and look away.

"I am not a selfless person, Emma." I shiver and swallow with difficulty. "Don't falsely apply virtues to my character."

As the amber tones of dusk filter away, encroaching darkness drains the color from her face. "You keep telling yourself that," she responds. "Just be careful or you might _actually_ start believing it." She looks over her shoulder, her interest piqued. Something has changed. "We need to get somewhere we can hole up for a while and think, and that's not here." Emma is right. The music has stopped and I hear the distant slamming of doors. Still burdened by heavy fabric, I pick myself up awkwardly. She reaches out to grab my hand.

"Don't touch me," I warn with a hiss, bundling the long hem of my dress over my arm so that I won't trip as I stand. Night, having fallen quickly, has brought an almost monochromatic tint to the landscape. The forest now looks to me more like a charred hole in the page of an illustrated book, than a place of sanctuary. Nevertheless, I march towards it with verve. Twenty steps on, however, I notice that Emma is not hot upon my heels as she should be. Twisting around, I see her torn silhouette still glittering, framed by the palace beyond. She has her arms extended, reaching out and sweeping through the air as if in expectation of a cloud of cobwebs. "This is no time for a game of blind man's buff," I call out.

"Yeah, well, I can't do any better," she throws back with irritation, fear affecting her voice. "The dark isn't helping." She is continuing to pace uncertainly, her ankle occasionally giving way as she walks into hazards. "If I could see properly, I'd be sprinting right now."

"The sun has barely gone down." I wave my hand toward the horizon where the skies are still bright enough to color the clouds a deep orange. "There's more than enough light." My heart begins to race. I see no guardsmen, but I feel that as we speak they are currently sliding their swords from their scabbards in preparation for the chase and kill. "Quickly," I growl with frustration as she makes little progress. This is ridiculous. I stomp towards her and take her by the elbow to pull her along. It is better than watching her drag her heels slower than one of the undead. My eyes dart as I lead us towards the oldest part of the woodland, where the largest trees grow. Is that galloping horses I hear? "You must run or they'll find us," I insist as the confidence of her steps increases.

"Yeah, I do know that, Regina," she mutters with exasperation as the cover of the forest further prevents the moon from lighting our way. Barely a few seconds later she yelps as a tree root catches her shoe, but she fights through the pain and stumbles on. "It's not my fault these stupid fairy tale land outfits don't comes with glasses or contacts. I've been doing my best, okay?"

I scoff. "Gl-" Oh. Ah. My face drops with genuine astonishment. She has poor vision. The fact that I didn't know this seems to be a strange oversight on my part; I thought I knew everything about her. "Do you mean to say you _actually_ have a flaw?" _Hell_. I should have phrased that differently. I should have used the word admit to imply that she is _confessing_ to have a flaw, and not that I believe her to be flawless.

"So you thought I was flawless?" she comments cockily.

_Damn it_. I don't even consider looking at the smirk that is indubitably clung to her lips.

* * *

"That's the fourth time we've been past this tree," Emma complains, pausing to rub at her calf muscle.

"Don't be absurd." We have slowed to a walk, our throats both audibly scorched by the drought in ours mouths caused by the heaving breaths of a frantic run. "We've been travelling in, well, practically a straight line." A dappling of light is all we have to guide us, and I am forced to be a set of eyes for us both. We are far enough into the forest that I no longer hear anything bar the hush of leaves, the cacophonous orchestra of birds and insects, and the wind that blows in great gusts from the north. The trees seem to breathe in this cool air and their slow exhalations play somber, murmurous tunes that sound to me like the softly-whining demands of the long dead. At times I think I hear my name, or the ring of a blade as it slices through the air. The forest is alive and the night is playing tricks on us.

"Yeah, well, it looks the same to me," she utters with a shrug, whacking her hand against the thick bark, before slumping down on a pile of moss and leaves to sit with her back to the trunk.

"I thought you said you couldn't see," I mutter, trying to breathe at a calm rate so as to reduce these horrendous palpitations.

"I'm short-sighted, Regina, not blind: there's a symbol carved into the tree. And unless someone's gone through the whole forest doing that to every fifth one, then..." She is irked by my silence and lack of interjection. "What? What is it?"

"I don't know." I really don't, but there is definitely something not right here. I step in closer and sense Emma look up at me as I trail my fingertips over the roughly hewn shape of a circle within a circle within a circle to form... a target: one of young Snow's less-than-ladylike extra curricular pursuits that she kept secret from her father. I found out of course; nothing escaped _my_ attention. I look back through the trees to find that I can still see the castle; we have made little, if any, headway. "This is all smoke and mirrors. Whoever it is that brought us here, doesn't want us to get very far." I bite at the inside of my cheek, struggling not to let my resolve crack again.

Emma pats the ground to one side. "Get some sleep. I'll keep watch."

_"Sleep_? It's midday in our world. You think as soon as I see the moon, I'm compelled to curl up and drift off to dreamland? Do you also suppose that if you place me on a shelf, I'd pose like a doll?"

"Last time I looked, you'd already been left on the shelf," she responds cuttingly.

Her snappy repartee is improving. "Last time _I_ looked, you were right there with me," I aver loftily, despite feeling the jagged burn of truth. We are both loverless. Both alone. Alone together.

Emma snaps a twig and a small piece whistles past my shoulder. "At least the guys I went with came to me, y'know -"

_Went_ with? _Fucked_, she means. Let's not play games here. "Came to you..." I prompt with a unsubtle lick of my lips, my corset suddenly feeling a fraction tighter.

"Because they _wanted_ to." She doesn't exactly sound triumphant about this; it's more like a consolation prize.

I'm not threatened by the insinuation; I know the men in my life wanted me, physically if nothing else. Though, not ever needing to conjure an erection, does not, perhaps, absolve me of guilt when it comes to one man in particular; without the faculty of true emotion, could he be said to have been incapable of better judgement? Better to concede to a yes than to lead a falsely blameless life. There were times when I thought Graham cared for me, but any feelings he seemed to have were no doubt my own, reflected in his eyes. "Did they love you?" I find myself asking, tracing lines across my collar bones and wishing I could see her uncertain expression a little better. "Well?" Why am I even asking? It's not like I care.

"Not all." I can make out a flash of teeth as she chews vigorously upon her lower lip. I expect she is thinking in single digits. Perhaps that figure is even one. "You?"

_"Me_?" Ah, I see; she's throwing the query back my way, but I cannot tell if she is asking out of actual interest. "A number of men have claimed to love me." Feeling exposed, a sharp shiver makes my breath catch as I try to hitch up the low neckline of this décolleté gown. "But I couldn't easily give myself over to them, not since..." Oh, what's the point in explanation? She can surmise the rest for herself. They, the ones who came to me in crawling supplication, took a primal act and contaminated it with their sickening devotion and tender, cloying affections. They repulsed me. After all, it can't be termed 'making love' if only one party is under the influence of that ardent rapture. "That didn't mean there wasn't sex," I add loudly. She blinks at me. "There _was_ sex." Vacant-eyed and purely carnal. Devoid of emotion. A means to an end. An itch to scratch. No hearts swollen with love. No rhyme or reason beyond the carnal desire of a man, his tumidity and my own desperate need to feel alive.

Regret increases the shake of my trembling chest. It's not like I ever _wanted_ to feel that way: to not have the ability to cope with sweetness unless it was in the name of pretence, my pretence; to find that passion and pleasure were tainted by desiderium; and to actively seek soulless intimacies that, in turn, encouraged self-hatred and an unalloyed resentment of easy happiness in others. Every hollow sexual encounter is stamped upon my soul like a dirty footprint; multiple blots across my copybook that fail to cover the blood and tears shed upon every page of my life. So there we have it: the facts that I can barely admit to myself let alone speak aloud. I'm _sure_ Emma knows already because she can read my mind, like the infernally _perfect_ person she is.

My throat tightens and as I repeatedly scrape my nails up and down my breast bone, a glimmer of light at the base of my ring finger catches my eye. I stare for a moment before pressing my thumb pad against the diamond until the flesh is rendered numb. Possessed by anger and urgency, I pull at the wedding bands, but it is like they are welded in place. About to seek assistance, I note that Emma is now looking up at the sky with an expression of curiosity and expectation. Her eyes shine with a distinct lustre. Softly, she speaks to me: "have you noticed how the portal has got us out of trouble twice now?

"Are you bored? Perhaps you'd like to try lunging at me with a pointy stick to see if we're whisked away once again?" I ridicule.

"Think about it," she suggests calmly, not taking my bait. "What if someone's not trying to put us _in_ dangerous situations but actually get us _out_ of them?"

Where does she keep finding these execrable bright sides? Did they throw her head first into that wardrobe? Let's not dwell on the fact that - _if_ we are currently being observed and aided by an ally, they have successfully dropped us into something potentially worse each time - and focus on a more prudent point: "why would _anyone_ assume we would even need help? I hardly think that a search party would have been sent out for you after a mere couple of hours. That is unless I've underestimated the people of Storybrooke's collective need to hit the panic button every time their beloved sheriff so much as gets a case of the sniffles."

Her shoulders hunch almost apologetically. "I was supposed to meet Killian for a -"

"_Ugh_." A coffee? A drink? A few minutes of unsatisfying intercourse? I don't even attempt to conceal my shock and disgust. "That second-rate, arrogant dandy who lusts after you like a rabid, inbred dog? Surely you're not _still_ entertaining the idea of letting him put his paws on you?" Correction: paw.

"Don't you think you're being a little harsh?" She winces, hugging her knees to her chest. "Hook's just a guy."

"Have you taken leave of your _senses_?" I blurt. Just a guy, my ass. I thought she had more sense. A white-hot heat washes through me, boiling, condensing, and purifying into liquid rage. I know how his mind works. All too well. The veil of charm he has cast over her eyes obscures his true face from revelation. Can she really not see through his lies? "You'd be another notch on his bedpost. Nothing more."

She crosses her arms and glares at me. "And that is your problem _how_ exactly?" she responds strongly, her words reverberating against my ear drums. I can't help but notice that she hasn't disagreed with me. Perhaps we have yet another hang-up in common.

"_Fine_. Go have sex with the self-absorbed idiot. Make that move and live with the regret." I lean over so she can see quite how serious I am. "Let him grind away while he stares at his own grin in the curved reflection of his metal hook." Emma seems unshakeable and consequently unswervable in her dedication; nothing I can say will change her mind. I sigh mournfully, raising my free hand to my head to drag out several thin metal pins and let my hair fall freely. The evocative fragrance of richly scented oils fills the air and conjures up a glut of recollections that cause my stomach to lurch and my heart to dip sharply. I cringe inwardly and continue to tug on my wedding rings. The pain at my knuckle is a welcome distraction from the rising nausea. Reaching up, she takes hold of my left hand. Loudly, I object: "stop that."

"You're clearly pissed off," she retaliates, "so quit whining and let me help you, Regina."

"Help me?" I laugh. "What do think you are? My antidote? My cure? My own _personal_ savior?" But she didn't mean find a way home or ridding me of the bane that still crawls through my veins, aerating my blood and infecting the marrow of my bones. No. I watch quietly as, intently, she examines the rings, twisting them back and forth.

Furtively, she glances up at me and, in that fleeting moment, I realize that I have become strangely accustomed to the reassuring touch of her hand. From afar, here is a scene of a suitor on bended knee, primed for a proposal. How different reality is on closer inspection. In an unexpected move, I feel her lips upon my fingers as she kisses my outstretched hand. Such chivalry seems out of character until I feel the tip of her hot tongue upon my knuckle as she wets the skin and I realize its purpose is to aid the movement of the rings. I ensnare my lower lip between my teeth to prevent any form of noticeable reaction as I suppress a convulsive breath, biting through the chafing pain as she quickly releases me from the promise I made to a man I never cared for.

As the intangible walls of another vortex of light slams down between us, I see the diamond pinched between her trembling fingertips and a triumphant glint in her eye. In the ensuing panic, she calls out my name, but my ability to reply has been stolen by the burst of crippling agony that hurtles through my head like an electric shock. And then she has gone. And so have I.

* * *

The muffled clip-clop noise of at least four horses trotting in unison shocks me awake. I am in near darkness, trapped in a moving box. As before, I cannot quite see because the pain at my temples is forcing my eyes to narrow. Fists clenched, I breathe calmly through pursed lips, my body enervated by shock. There. There. Finally. It's easing. My eyes flick open as the vehicle is jolted to one side and I bounce uncomfortably against the padded seating. The glass of the small lamps affixed to the carriage walls shake, causing their glow to become brighter for a brief moment. To my left, I see a smallish door with a fabric-obscured window. To my right, the same. It is apparent that I am alone, but I dare not call out for Emma; I sense my cries would be in vain.

Above me I see a curved roof, decorated with patterns of dragons and crowns upon a blood-red surface. This seat - upholstered with the finest cloth and inlaid with gold thread - gives me no indication as to the time in which I have been placed. However, my own clothes do. Air stops short in my throat as I note the rigidity of the stiff choker at my neck, the grandeur of a peacock feather collar, the smoothness of the fine leather clung to my legs. I feel the perfectly tailored lines of this deep damson, pinch-waisted coat of velvet that buttons neatly over a revealing gemstone-studded corset and then flows around my hips, the long hemline reaching the floor. I extend the fingers of my tightly-gloved hands over my knees, slide my tongue over my painted lips and sit up a little prouder. Suddenly, I don't feel quite so out of place anymore.


	6. Tapping the Glass

_Chapter Six: Tapping the Glass_

I dig the heels of my boots into a groove in the slatted wood floor and grab one of the small, filigreed door locks. Again the carriage kicks up on one side and, as the rocking increases, I come to realize that the wheels are now turning even faster than before. My spine aches from the repetitive, abrupt movements; I almost cannot bear it. Yanking aside one of the thick, black drapes causes sunlight to stream into the carriage, highlighting aimlessly-floating dust motes and startling my vision. Blinking, I take in the view. A blur of greenery flies by. I turn to the other window, tear back the heavy fabric and spy, in the distance, a small and innocuous village. Nothing special: grazing cows; smoke effortlessly rising from multiple chimney pots; and farmers tending their crops. What did I expect to see? The library clock tower? Storybrooke Hardware & Paint? I just don't know.

Sitting back, I stare at the unoccupied seat opposite my own. Was Emma right? Were those portals sent by those seeking to save her? If so, have they succeeded this time? Did she protest as she fell into her father's arms and demanded my liberation also? Is she with Henry, kindly informing him that I am gone forever? I've been a lost cause since this day began. I inhale deeply and exhale shakily. Perhaps she is still in the forest, clutching my wedding rings in her palm and wondering how she shall fight for her life with no weapon and a shortness of sight. No, she is safe; I feel it. Pushing my hand into the silk-lined compartment bolted to the wall, I am relieved to find my silver flask; retrieving it, I quickly spin off the cap and, as the liquid hits my throat, I watch two armored horsemen gallop by, swords in hands. Are these my loyal guardsmen or the ones who wish to kill me? I have no way of knowing since the guise of one is indistinguishable from the uniform of the other. Fear prickles at the back of my neck, twisting knots of tension into my shoulders and raising my blood pressure.

Fighting back a shudder, I prepare to tug upon the bell-pull to alert the driver to rein in the horses, but there is no need; we have come to an abrupt, bone-shaking halt and I can hear the unmistakable sound of muffled screams.

* * *

"Emma." A glimpse of her blonde hair is all I need in order to take action. Letting the carriage door slam behind me, I march forward and rip the gloves from my hands. The scene ahead grows clearer and more alarming: she is being held captive, forced face-down on the muddy ground. Worst still, I see how tightly they grasp the nape of the neck, roughly stepping upon her wrists and ankles to subdue her. Each stamp of their heavy boots is like a vigorous kick to my chest. They will pay for this act of iniquity. Much closer now, I see a raised sword and my lungs seem to empty of all sustainable air. "_No_," I scream, sweeping along the lane apace, my head pounding with unadulterated rage. Damn the consequences. _Damn_ it _all_. Cupping my hand, I drive all my energies into the flare of phosphorescent fire that forms. I must gather it all: every ounce of magic, feeling and life force that I have inside me. _Everything_.

Striking out, I slam my palm in the direction of the sword and its owner. Ionized air prickles at my skin, audibly crackling like static, but it is nothing compared to the lightning storm that has burgeoned within me. I look on in dizzy horror, unable to take in the sight before me as I watch — of all things — _sand_... yes, sand scatter across the ground like a smattering of seeds cast for sowing. One victim alone falls foul of my fruitless attempt at knocking down a dozen men like nine pins, and he merely wipes the grains from his eye. Dumbfounded, the blood drains from my face. What is happening to me? I let out a gasping breath, cursing the sky. "_Release her_," I yelp vehemently, the words tearing painfully at my throat as my pulse races loudly in my ears. "_Now_." _Please_, I beg silently. Without functioning magic, I feel impotent and, if I cannot command them as once I did, she will die. "Did you not hear me?" Standing prouder, I tilt my head and stare pointedly at anyone who does not shy away from my stern glances. "_Well_?"

"But, your majesty," comes a voice from the gathering, "it was you who ordered her death."

* * *

Clearly the devil is trying me on for size and, oh, I _guarantee_ I am a _perfect_ fit. I close my eyes slowly and grit my teeth. Of _course_ it was me. What other consequence would be as bitter a pill to swallow than to have demanded Emma's head on a spike? What other dismal scenarios will be served up to punch gaping holes in my vulnerabilities and turn her against me? My last hours of life shall be lived in a nightmare, that much is evident. I am at the mercy of this person or people who direct this tiresome play, and it would not surprise me if they choose to next upturn my existence by placing the hilt of a sword in my hand and its blade readily submerged deep in Emma's gut. They will not rest until her blood is dripping between my fingers. Gulping back a tired, irritable breath, I feel the stares of consternation from those waiting for instruction. My eyes flutter open and I grimace at their pathetic faces. My sudden leniency and emotional reaction have given me away; they do not trust me. "You think I have _forgotten_?" I scowl, baring my teeth like a wounded beast. "You think that I do not know my own _mind_? If I say to release her, then you _release_ her."

Pursing my lips tightly, I thrust my arm out to guide their line of sight. What little autonomy they had dwindles as my power over them grows. I look on with an unsuppressed grin as they move to undo their work. My bidding is theirs to do. They are nothing but a collection of idiotic marionettes whose strings only _I_ may hold taut. I may not have magic, but I am still their queen. As they aid her in standing, I feel elated by this victory, but my swollen, pleased heart shrivels in my chest as I see the muddied creature pulled from the ground hobble towards me, flanked by guards. I press my palm to my waist to calm the rising panic. I know this face: this young woman once took an apple from my tree. No more. No less. One of the many I had killed as a show of my ruthlessness, and to fuel rumors of my lack of remorse. Nothing more. Nothing less. Sorrow floods my abdomen. My mind swims. I am alone. Emma really is gone. "Let her go," I mutter softly, my voice catching. "I have no use for her."

I hear distant, unbearable whimpers of gratitude as I turn and stride away, passing villagers who stand with expressions of shock and awe. Digging my thumb into my palm and flexing my fingers, I head for my carriage; it is as good a place to be as any right now. "Take me home," I instruct the driver, but I have no actual desire to be there. Or anywhere. Or any when.

* * *

"Leave me," I quietly demand as I sink down into the large, winged chair beside the faintly-crackling fireplace, my fingertips impatiently rapping at the high arms. Word of my uncharacteristic mercy has spread and my servants now observe me cautiously as if I am wild and untamed; a beast on whom they do not wish to turn their backs for fear that I may pounce and bite at their ankles. It seems that even a moderate kindness can make you a threat. Hearing the chink of glass, I look up and they all reel back a fraction. Warily, silver trays of food and drink are mutely proffered my way, but the mere thought of eating turns my stomach. Any meal that I might consume would surely become ashes in my mouth, and any wine, blood in my gullet. "_Leave me_." This time the words, uttered as part of a shout, are effective. A kerfuffle ensues as the men and women scramble past one another and make their escape from my chambers, finally granting me a moment's peace.

The tension in my body releases and my dispirited head hangs. With sagging shoulders and heavy limbs, I take shallow breaths, my eyelashes rapidly fluttering away the tears that never quite arrive. Fist upon my abdomen, I sigh. Alone. Very much alone. So I wanted someone to hold my hand when I die. Was that simple request _such_ a crime that I had to be torn from my created reality and brought back to this land where every path leads to yet another page in this anthology of anguish? The sight of the dying fire blurs and my cheeks begin to ache from emotional restraint. What little good I ever did must have run dry. Life has no more favors to pay me and, frankly, I don't blame it. "Death," I say under my breath, "death to the evil queen."

"What queen is this, your majesty?" comes a question that seems to float through the air like a voice from a radio set, startling me to standing. "Have you a new rival in the realm? Might I locate her for you?" it continues.

"Sidney?" At first I'm confused, glancing at the exits and balcony, but then I remember. My sinuses sting with a strange sort of happiness as I immediately pace over to my dressing table where I find the reflection-less mirror in which he waits. The joy of a familiar face is surprisingly overwhelming.

"Ah. As beautiful as the day is long," he soothes sycophantically upon seeing me. "Did I hear you have a mission for me? Who is this Queen Sidney of which you speak?" he ponders. "I have never heard of -"

"Oh, no. I was referring to..." But he isn't Sidney. Of course he isn't. Regardless of our decades in Storybooke, here he is my genie of the mirror. "There is no one."

"No one at all? Surely you have time for a little vanquishing before supper?" He smirks and I can't help but think of the love he holds for me, a love that had successfully blinded him morally. Had I been a good queen, he would have been just as firm a supporter. He did, after all, desire me most when he thought me innocent. I look down and suddenly his encouraging smile is too much and so I flip the frame onto its front. I turn to find he has relocated to the large, circular mirror on the wall. With large, metalized eyes blinking, he stares at me expectantly. Well acquainted with my petulance, his grin remains. "There is really no one you wish to see?"

I walk away, dragging my hand along the edge of the small, intricately-carved table, the fire-warmed varnish almost tacky to the touch. Picking up a pristine apple, I briefly turn it between my fingers before returning it to the pewter bowl. "I wish Henry were here."

"Your father is traveling north to trade with the silk craftsmen," he informs me, "but shall return tomorrow."

With a light sniff, I shake my head and laugh wistfully. "Wrong Henry," I respond without further explanation. My boy would be inspired by this land. As an infant I told him stories of heroes and magic, but — once he became a young man with a keen insight — I felt I had to belittle his talk of fairytales and villains. It felt cruel to dismiss his wonderings, but the truth always had far too much potential for destruction. Imagine if Henry had been pulled here with me instead of Emma. He would have been torn apart by the monstrosities they would no doubt have exposed him to. He would never have looked at me the same ever again. For that reason alone, I am glad that my genie can no longer grant wishes. But he can do other things. "Mirror, find me..." Who? Rumplestiltskin? Worrying at my lower lip with my teeth, I pause.

"Yes?"

No. I shake my head dismissively. What good would it do to find a way home? Much as I said earlier: why does it matter _where_ I die? "Grow up, Regina," I hiss at myself. My breathing becomes labored, my cheeks warm and I find myself unable to stand. Slumping into a chair, I rest my elbow upon the dressing table and let my forehead drop against my upturned hand. With each ratcheting breath of my weary lungs, I spin a silver-backed hairbrush in slow circles and try to comprehend my situation. A single, clear image comes to mind, and no matter how much I try to replace the vision with a veil of white or black or forests and rivers, it insists on returning. Emma. She is haunting me before I have had the chance to be a ghost in her world. Go away, Miss Swan, and let me have my imagination to myself. Shoo.

I pick up a tincture of potion and watch the gold-speckled, amber liquid ooze from side to side as I let the bottle sway. Can I even remember what this does or how it is supposed to be used? I place it back with the others in my tabletop apothecary box and rumble my finger over the tiny corks. Feeling a ticklish, warm breeze across my cheek, my gaze is drawn up. Outside, thin clouds have obscured the sun and, as the shadows sweep over the room like a low-hanging mist, I examine my palm. Not even a scar or line where once were angry, sore grooves. I still don't understand it, and now I never will. Did Emma take away my wounds and repair the skin anew? I believed her earlier protestations of innocence, but she is naïve of the untapped power that dwells inside her.

My heart becomes heavy in my chest, tugging at my desire for this to be over, for my conclusion to occur and the shadows of night to drift lazily over my lifeless body. Darkness — in all its forms — is so forgiving, hiding all the imperfections that the light puts on display. I think of my time in Storybrooke and hope that, in the end, some goodness shone through, that, should anyone have looked closely, they would have found vestiges of altruism between acerbic words of hostility. The thought that this might be true brings a light-headed sensation of happiness, but the gratification I feel is like that of self-induced orgasm on a lonely, miserable night: short-lived and ultimately deflating. Why am I even trying to console myself with these lies? Those people will _never_ think well of me.

Sidney Glass-face is calling to me. I do not reply. Despite my surroundings being completely true to my recollections, I do not feel I can trust _anyone_. Even he could have a plan for my demise. Of course, little does anyone here know that it is only a matter of time before the poison shall to do its work. I look at my reflection in the three-panelled vanity mirror and spy Sidney leering at me, repeating his bids for my attention. I ignore him, but more insistent he is, the higher my irritation levels become. Biting my tongue, I breathe in sharply through my nose. "_What_?" I snap.

"Are you unwell, your majesty?" he asks, unaware of how delicate a subject that is.

I want to cry out that I am _dead_. Scream that I have been _murdered_. Whisper that _revenge_ will come. It doesn't happen. Instead I smile widely, my wicked grin gleaming back at me threefold. "I am better than ever, my dear." I am queen again, if only for a day, and I will die a royal death. My eyes are drawn down to one particular potion bottle in the set, its blood red neck standing taller and prouder than the rest. I pick it out and let the re-emerging sun illuminate its roughened label and beautifully-inked name. "Yes," I add, running my thumb along the swell of the base, "better than ever." Freeing the cork, an almond-scented wisp of smoke escapes into the air and I casually blow it away. My unsteady pulse quickens as I look again to my healed palm. "One last favor," I request, swivelling around on the seat.

"Last? But -"

I press my finger to my lips to silence him. "Listen." I don't know if it will work, but I must confirm that there is nothing in this kingdom to stay for. "The person I want you to find is not someone who is known to you, she is an anachronism in this time and place, and you may not find her on any map of these lands or even this world. But —"

"If I may interject. I think you already know I am not fit for your task." He almost looks smug, swirling around in his frame like a bodiless otter. "You need someone stout of heart, with a skill for seeking the impossible and _finding_ it."

Yes. Yes. What's with the propensity for skirting around the point dramatically? Was everyone's method of speech once like his? I really don't recall. "And _who_ might that be?" And how quickly can we get them here?

"The Sovereign Protector," Sidney announces like a showman revealing the next act. If he had a prominent nose, I would gladly break it. With wide eyes, I wait for him to elucidate. "Now you don't need me to tell you who that is, do you?" he says rhetorically, looking at me as if I am insane and the irony of that is not lost on me. "The one to whom you tell all your secrets? The one person on whom you rely without caution?" I stare pointedly because this ridiculous riddle is absurd; I never _had_ such a person. "Surely you could never forget the name of your own savior, your majesty." A sinking feeling sweeps over me like a cold breeze, sapping my strength and driving a sharp shiver up my spine. Sidney smiles at me inanely. "I see in your eyes that you have remembered. She, of all people, is your best hope for finding that which is lost to you. I guarantee it."

Summoning the wherewithal to speak, I respond. "And _where_ might Ifind her?"

Cheerily, he replies. "Beneath the palace." Frustrated, I scowl and raise my hand, threatening him with a fireball that he has no idea I cannot produce. With a wince, he adds: "you sent her to the dungeon, my queen."

* * *

The puzzle in which we are trapped — this game of venomous snakes and broken-rung ladders — is adapting around us, and I am becoming increasingly concerned that we will never get Emma home. Worrying what state I might find her in, I pull on my black velvet cloak, pick up an oil lamp and hastily drag open the imposing oak door. Rushing along the cold, damp tunnel, I take a corner and begin peering into the darkness ahead, hoping against hope to be startled by her sudden appearance. Slim steps lead down and guide me to another turn, further into the bowels of this neglected, tenebrous place. Traversing this well-trodden path is easy, habitual even, no direction forgotten. Before long I am there and, at the end of an arch-roofed corridor, I see the entrance. Yes, this could all be a ploy to lure me directly into harm's way, but I must know the truth. I walk on undeterred and, with trepidation, I enter. An overwhelming aura of resentment and hostility washes over me like a choking cloud of smog. Holding my light aloft, I take in a sight I thought I would see again only in my dreams.

And what a sight it is. Over the years — as my apple tree grew strong and magnificent in the courtyard above — this below-ground, once-cavernous space was consumed by a tangle of hungry, sustenance-seeking roots. From the crumbling, vaulted ceiling to the dirt-packed floor, the wide, central mass twists downwards and outwards, filling this blackened ventricular chamber and feeding from the barbarous injustices that took place here. Oddly beautiful. Adeptly, I clamber over and between trailing, woody tendrils, watching the shadows cast by my lamp slink across the uneven wall like gnarled, restless arms snatching at my silhouette. When once I used to visit this dungeon, I came to gloat at my prisoners and hear them speak of me in revengeful terms. I thrived on it. Now I simply wonder how no one locked me up and smelted the key. Looking through the window of bars in each of the cell doors that line the perimeter of this circular room, I come to realize that they have one thing in common: they are all empty. "Emma," I call out in a strained whisper, then again louder, praying that she is hidden in a darkened, concealed corner. Her name quietly echoes back to me and sorrow hits me squarely in the chest. I take a moment, listening to the dull slap of condensation as it drips from algae-coated walls. I am furious that I have readily dropped into the figurative depths of this pitcher plant with ready-made lockable doors. I have been duped and no doubt a group of knights will soon descend on me. At least there is a time limit set on the torture I imagine they shall submit me to.

Emma was bait and, like an idiot, I fell for it.


End file.
